THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

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LIBRARY 


#• 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


LYING, 


ALL  ITS    BLANCHES, 


BY  AMELIA  OPIE, 


EXETER,  N.  H. 

PUBLISHED  BY  J.  C.  GERRISH 
1832. 


TO 

Dr.  ALDERSON  of  NORWICH. 


To  thee,  my  beloved  Father,  I  dedicated 
my  first,  and  to  thee  I  also  dedicate  my 
present,  work  ; — with  the  pleasing  convic- 
tion that  thou  art  disposed  to  form  a  favour- 
able judgment  of  any  production,  however 
humble,  which  has  a  tendency  to  promote 
the  moral  and  religious  welfare  of  mankind, 

AMELIA  OPIE. 


- 


PREFACE. 


I  AM  aware  that  a  preface  must  be  short,  if  its  author  as- 
pires to  have  it  read.  I  shall  therefore  content  myself  with 
nu  *ung  a  very  few  preliminary  observations,  which  I  wish 
to  be  considered  as  apologies. 

My  first  apology  is,  for  having  throughout  my  book  made 
use  of  the  words  lying  and  lies,  instead  of  some  gentler 
term,  or  some  easy  paraphase,  by  which  I  might  have 
avoided  the  risk  of  offending  the  delicacy  of  any  of  my 
readers. 

Our  great  satirist  speaks  of  a  Dean  who  was  a  favour- 
ite at  the  church  where  he  officiated,  because 

"  He  never  mentioned  hell  to  ears  polite, — " 

and  I  fear  that  to  "ears  polite,"  my  coarsness,  in  uniform- 
ly calling  lying  and  lie  by  their  real  names,  may  sometimes 
be  offensive. 

But,  when  writing  a  book  against  lying,  I  was  obliged 
to  «xpress  my  meaning  in  the  manner  most  consonant  to 
the  strict  timth  ;  nor  could  I  employ  any  words  with  such 
propriety  as  those  hallowed  and  sanctioned  for  use,  on 
6uch  an  occasion,  by  the  practice  of  inspired,  and  holy 
men  of  old. 

Moreover,  I  believe  that  those  who  accustom  them- 
selves to  call  lying  and  lie  by  a  softning  appellation, 
ere  in  danger  of  weakening  their  aversion  to  the  fault 
itself. 

My  second  apology  is,  for  presuming  to  come  forward, 
with  such  apparent  boldness,  as  a  didactic  writer,  and  a 
teacher  of  truths,  which  I  ought  to  believe  that  every  one 
knows  already,  and  better  than  I  do. 


VI  PREFACE. 

But  I  beg  permission  to  deprecate  the  charge  of  pre- 
sumption and  self-conceit,  by  declaring  that  I  pretend  not 
to  lay  before  my  readers  any  new  knowledge ;  my  only- 
aim  is  to  bring  to  their  recollection  knowledge  which  they 
already  possess,  but  do  not  constantly  recall  and  act  upon. 

I  am  to  them,  and  to  my  subject,  what  the  picture  clean- 
er is  to  the  picture;  the  restorer  to  observation  of  what  is 
valuable,  and  not  the  artist  who  created  it. 

In  the  next  place,  I  wish  to  remind  them  that  a  weak 
hand  is  as  able  as  a  powerful  one  to  hold  a  mirror,  in  which 
we  may  see  any  defects  in  our  dress  or  person. 

In  the  last  place,  I  venture  to  assert  that  there  is  not  in 
my  whole  book  a  more  common-place  truth,  than  that 
kings  are  but  men,  and  that  monarchs,  as  well  as  their 
subjects,  must  surely  die. 

Notwithstanding,  Philip  of  Macedon  was  so  conscious  of 
his  liability  to  forget  this  awful  truth,  that  he  employed  a 
monitor  to  follow  him  every  day,  repeating  in  his  ear, 
"  Remember  thou  art  but  a  man."  And  he  who  gave 
this  salutary  admonition  neither  possessed  superiority  of 
wisdom,  nor  pretended  to  possess  it. 

All,  therefore,. that  I  require  of  my  readers  is  to  do  me 
justice  to  believe  that,  in  the  following  work,  my  preten- 
sions have  been  as  humble,  and  as  confined,   as  those  of 

the  REMEMBRANCER  of  PHILIP  OF  MACEDON. 

AMELIA  OPIE. 


COJVTEJVTS. 


CHAP.  J. 

Introduction,  -  9 

CHAP.  II. 

On  the  Active  and  Passive  Lies  of  Vanity — The 
Stage  Coach — Unexpected  Discoveries,      -  10 

CHAP.  III. 

On  the  Lies  of  Flattery— The  Tcrban,  -  42 

CHAP.  IV. 
Lies  of  Fear— The  Bank  Note,  -  50 

CHAP.  V. 

Lies  falsely  called  Lies  of  Benevolence — A 
Tale  of  Potted  Sprats — An  Authoress  and 
her  Auditors,  ....  57 

CHAP.  VI. 

Lies  of  Convenience — Projects  Defeated,        -  67 

CHAP.  VII. 
Ltes  of  Interest— The  Skreen,  •  *9 


Viil  CONTENTS. 

CHAP.  VIII. 
Lies  of  First-Rate  Malignity— The  Orphan.    -  89 

CHAP.  IX. 

Lies  of  Second-Rate  Malignity — The  Old  Gen- 
tleman and  the  Young  One,  -  105 

CHAP.  X. 

Lies  of  Benevolence,  ...  114 

CHAP.  X.  Continued. 

Lies  of  Benevolence — Mistaken    Kindness — 
Father  and  Son,  -  -  -  120 

CHAP.  XI. 

Lies  of  Wantonness  and  Practical  Lies,  -  140 

CHAP.  XII. 

Our  own  Experience  of  the  Painful  Results  of 
Lying,  -----  146 

CHAP.  XIII. 

Lying  the  most  common  of  all  Vices,  -  153 

CHAP.  XIV. 
Extracts  from  Lord  Bacon  and  others,  *  155 

CHAP.  XV. 

Observations  on  the  Extracts  from  Hawkes- 

worth  and  others,  ...  173 

CHAP.  XVI. 

Reiigionthe  only  Basis  of  Truth,        -  •  180 

CHAP.  XVII. 

The  same  subject  continued,  -  -  20"! 

Conclusion,  -  -  213 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

OF 

LYIJVG, 

IN  ALL  ITS  BRANCHES. 


CHAPTER  I. 


INTRODUCTION. 


What  constitutes  lying  1 

I  answer  the  intention  to  deceive. 

If  this  be  a  correct  definition,  there  must  be  passive  aa 
well  as  active  lying;  and  those  who  withhold  the  truth,  or 
do  not  tell  the  whole  truth,  with  an  intention  to  deceive, 
are  guilty  of  lying,  as  well  as  those  who  tell  a  direct  or  pos- 
itive falsehood. 

Lies  are  many,  and  various  in  their  nature  and  in  their 
tendency,  and  may  be  arranged  tmder  their  different  names, 
thus  : — 

Lies  of  Vanity. 

Lies  of  Flattery. 

Lies  of  Convenience. 

Lies  of  Interest. 

Lies  of  Fear. 

Lies  of  first-rate  Malignity. 

Lies  of  second-rate  Malignity. 

Lies,  falsely  called  Lies  of  Benevolence. 

Lies  of  real  Benevolence. 

Lies  of  mere  Wantonness,  proceeding  from  a  depraved 
love  of  lying,  or  contempt  for  truth. 


10  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

There  are  others  probably ;  but  I  believe  that  this  list 
contains  all  those  which  are  of  the  most  importance ;  un- 
less, indeed,  we  may  add  to  it — 

Practical  Lies  ;  that  is,  Lies  acted,  not  spoken. 

I  shall  give  an  anecdote,  or  tale,  in  order  to  illustrate 
each  sort  of  lie  in  its  turn,  or  nearly  so,  lies  for  the  sake 
of  lying  excepted  ;  for  I  should  find  it  very  difficult  so 
to  illustrate  this  the  most  despicable  species  of  falsehood. 


CHAPTER  II. 

ON  THE  ACTIVE  AND  PASSIVE  LIES  OF  VANITY. 

I  shall  begin  my  observations  by  defining  what  T  mean 
by  the  Lie  of  Vanity,  both  in  its  active  and  passive  nature; 
these  lies  being  undoubtedly  the  most  common,  because 
vanity  is  one  of  the  most  powerful  springs  of  human  action, 
and  is  usually  the  besetting  sin  of  every  one.  Suppose, 
that,  in  order  to  give  myself  consequence,  I  were  to  as- 
sert that  I  was  actually  acquainted  with  certain  great  and 
distinguished  personages  whom  I  had  merely  met  in  fash- 
ionable society.  Suppose  also,  I  were  to  say  that  I  was 
at  such  a  place,  and  such  an  assembly  on  such  a  night, 
without  adding,  that  I  was  there,  not  as  an  invited  guest, 
but  only  because  a  benefit  concert  was  held  at  these  places 
for  which  I  had  tickets. — These  would  both  be  lies  of  van- 
ity; but  the  one  would  be  an  active,  the  other  a  passive, 
lie. 

In  the  first  I  should  assert  a  direct  falsehood,  in  the  other 
I  should  withhold  part  of  the  truth  ;  but  both  would  be  lies* 
because,  in  both,  my  intention  was  to  deceive.* 

*  This  passive  lie  is  a  very  frequent  one  in  certain  cir- 
cles in  London ;  as  many  ladies  and  gentlemen  there  pur- 
chase tickets  for  benefit  concerts  held  at  great  houses,  in 
order  that  they  may  be  able  to  say,  w  I  was  at  lady  sueh  <* 
one's  on  sucb  a  night. w 


ON  LIES  OP  VANITY.  11 

But  though  we  are  frequently  tempted  to  be  guilty  of 
the  active  lies  of  vanity,  our  temptations  to  its  passive  lies 
are  more  frequent  still ;  nor  can  the  sincere  lovers  of  truth 
be  too  much  on  their  guard  against  this  constantly  recurring 
danger.  The  following  instances  will  explain  what  I  mean 
by  this  observation. 

If  I  assert  that  my  motive  for  a  particular  action  was 
virtuous,  when  I  know  that  it  was  worldly  and  selfish,  I 
am  guilty  of  an  active,  or  direct,  lie.  But  I  am  equally 
guilty  of  falsehood,  if,  while  I  hear  my  actions  or  forbear- 
ances praised;  and  imputed  to  decidedly  worthy  motives, 
when  I  am  concious  that  the)'  sprung  from  unworthy  or 
unimportant  ones,  I  listen  with  silent  complacency,  and  do 
not  positively  disclaim  my  right  to  commendation ;  only,  in 
the  one  case  I  lie  directly,  in  the  other  indirectly  :  the 
lie  is  active  in  the  one,  and  passive  in  the  other.  And  are 
we  not  all  of  us  conscious  of  having  sometimes  accepted 
incense  to  our  vanity,  which  we  knew  that  we  did  not  de- 
serve 1 

Men  have  been  known  to  boast  of  attention,  and  even  of 
avowals  of  serious  love  from  women,  and  women  from 
men,  which,  in  point  of  fact,  they  never  received,  and 
therein  have  been  guilty  of  positive  falsehood ;  but  they 
who,  without  any  contradiction  on  their  own  part,  allow 
their  friends  and  flatterers  to  insinuate  that  they  have  been, 
or  are,  objects  of  love  and  admiration  to  those  who  never 
professed  either,  are  as  much  guilty  of  deception  as  the  ut- 
terers  of  the  above-mentioned  assertion.  Still,  it  is  certain, 
that  many,  who  would  shrink  with  moral  disgust  from 
committing  the  latter  species  of  falsehood,  are  apt  to  re- 
main silent,  when  their  vanity  is  gratified,  without  any 
overt  act  of  deceit  on  their  part,  and  are  contented  to  let 
the  flattering  belief  remain  uncontradicted.  Yet  the  tur- 
pitude is,  in  my  opinion,  at  least,  nearly  equal,  if  my 
definition  of  lying  be  correct ;  namely,  the  intention  to 
deceive. 

This  disingenuous  passiveness,  this  deceitful  silence,  be- 
longs to  that  extensive  and  common  species  of  falsehood 
withholding  the  truth. 
I   But  this  tolerated  sin,  denominated  white  lying,  is  a  sin 


12  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYING. 

which  I  believe  that  some  persons  commit,  not  only  with* 
out  being  conscious  that  it  is  a  sin,  but,  frequently,  with  a 
belief  that,  to  do  it  readily,  and  without  confusion,  is  often 
a  merit,  and  always  a  proof  of  ability.  Still  more  fre- 
quently, they  do  it  unconsciously,  perhaps,  from  the  force 
of  habit;  and,  like  Monsieur  Jourdain,  "the  Bourgeois 
gentil-homme,"  who  found  out  that  he  had  talked  prose  all 
his  life  without  knowing  it,  these  persons  utter  lie  upon  lie, 
without  knowing  that  what  they  utter  deserves  to  be  con- 
sidered as  falsehood. 

I  am  myself  convinced,  that  a  passive  lie  is  equally  as 
irreconcilable  to  moral  principles  as  an  active  one ;  but  I 
am  well  aware  that  most  persons  are  of  a  different  opin- 
ion. Yet,  I  would  say  to  those  who  thus  differ  from  me, 
if  you  allow  yourselves  to  violate  truth — that  is,  to  deceive, 
for  any  purpose  whatever — who  can  say  where  this  sort  of 
self-indulgence  will  submit  to  be  bounded  1  Can  you  be 
sure  that  you  will  not,  when  strongly  tempted,  utter  what 
is  equally  false,  in  order  to  benefit  yourself  at  the  expense 
of  a  fellow  creature  1 

All  mortals  are,  at  times,  accessible  to  temptation  ;  but, 
when  we  are  not  exposed  to  it,  we  dwell  with  complacen- 
cy on  our  means  of  resisting  it,  on  our  principles,  and  our 
tried  and  experienced  self-denial :  but,  as  the  life-boat,  and 
the  safety-gun,  which  succeeded  in  all  that  they  were  made 
to  do  while  the  sea  was  calm,  and  the  winds  still,  have 
been  known  to  fail  when  the  vessel  was  tost  on  a  tempestu- 
ous ocean ;  so  those  who  may  successfully  oppose  principle 
to  temptation  when  the  tempest  of  the  passons  is  not  awak- 
ened within  their  bosoms,  may  sometimes  be  overwelmed 
by  its  power  when  it  meets  them  in  all  its  awful  energy  and 
unexpected  violence. 

But  in  every  warfare  against  human  corruption,  habitual 
resistance  to  little  temptations  is,  next  to  prayer,  the  most 
efficacious  aid.  He  who  is  to  be  trained  for  public  exhi- 
bitions of  feats  of  strength,  is  made  to  carry  small  weights 
at  first,  which  are  daily  increased  in  heaviness,  till,  at  last, 
he  is  almost  unconsciously  able  to  bear,  with  ease,  the 
greatest  weight  possible  to  be  borne  by  man.  In  like  man- 
ner, those  who  resist  the  daily  temptation  to  tell  what  are  ap* 


ON  LIES  OP  VANITY.  13 

parently  trivial  and  innocent  lies,  will  be  better  able  to 
withstand  allurements  to  serious  and  important  deviations 
from  truth,  and  be  more  fortified  in  the  hour  of  more  severe 
temptation  against  every  species  of  dereliction  from  integ- 
rity. 

The  active  lie3  of  vanity  are  so  numerous,  but  at  the 
same  time,  are  so  like  each  other,  that  it  were  useless,  as 
well  as  endless,  to  attempt  to  enumerate  them.  I  shall 
therefore  mention  one  of  them  only,  before  I  proceed  to  my 
tale  on  the  active  he  of  vanity,  and  that  is  the  most 
common  of  all ;  namely,  the  violation  of  truth  which  per- 
sons indulge  in  relative  to  their  age  ;  an  error  so  generally 
committed,  especially  by  the  unmarried  of  both  sexes,  that 
few  persons  can  expect  to  be  believed  when  declaring  their 
age  at  an  advanced  period  of  life.  So  common,  and  there- 
fore so  little  disreputable,  is  this  species  of  lie  considered 
to  be,  that  a  sensihle  friend  cf  mine  said  to  me  the  other 
day,  when  I  asked  him  the  age  of  the  lady  whom  he  was 
going  to  marry,  **  She  tells  me  she  is  five-and-twenty ;  I 
therefore  conclude  that  she  is  five-and-thirty."  This  was 
undoubtedly  spoken  in  joke  ;  still  it  was  an  evidence  of  the 
toleration  generally  granted  on  this  point. 

But  though  it  is  possible  that  my  friend  believed  the  la- 
dy to  be  a  year  or  two  older  than  she  owned  herself  to  be, 
and  thought  a  deviation  from  truth  on  this  subject  was  of 
io  consequence,  I  am  very  sure  that  he  would  not  have  ven- 
tured to  marry  a  woman  whom  he  suspected  of  lying  on 
any  other  occasion.  This  however  is  a  lie  which  does  not 
expose  the  utterer  to  severe  animadversion,  and  for  this 
reason  probably,  that  all  mankind  are  so  averse  to  be 
thought  old,  that  the  wish  to  be  considered  younger  than 
ihe  truth  warrants  meet  with  complacent  sympathy  and  in- 
dulgence, even  when  years  are  notoriously  annihilated  at 
the  impulse  of  vanity. 

1  give  the  following  story  in  illustration  of  the  active 

LIE  OF  VANITY. 


THE  STAGE  COACH. 

Amongst  those  whom  great  successes  in  trade  had  raised 
to  considerable  opulence  in  their  native  city,  was  a  family 
by  the  name  of  Burford ;  and  the  eldest  brother,  when  he 
was  the  only  surviving  partner  of  that  name  in  the  firm, 
was  not  only  able  to  indulge  himself  in  the  luxuries  of  a 
carriage,  country-house,  garden,  hot-houses,  and  all  the 
privileges  which  wealth  bestows,  but  could  also  lay  by  mon- 
ey enough  to  provide  amply  for  his  children. 

His  only  daughter  had  been  adopted,  when  very  young, 
by  her  paternal  grandmother,  whose  fortune  was  employed 
in  her  son's  trade,  and  who  could  well  afford  to  take  on 
herself  all  the  expences  of  Annabel's  education.  But  it 
was  with  painful  reluctance  that  Annabel's  excellent  moth- 
er consented  to  resign  her  child  to  another's  care ;  nor 
could  she  be  prevailed  upon  to  do  so,  till  Burford,  who  be- 
lieved that  his  widowed  parent,  would  sink  under  the  loss 
of  her  husband,  unless  Annabel  was  permitted  to  reside 
with  her,  commanded  her  to  yield  her  maternal  rights  in 
pity  to  this  beloved  sufferer.  She  could  therefore  presume 
to  refuse  no  longer  ; — but  she  yielded  with  a  mental  con- 
flict only  too  prophetic  of  the  mischief  to  which  she  expose 
her  child's  mind  and  character,  by  this  enforced  surrendei 
of  a  mother's  duties. 

The  grandmother  was  a  thoughtless  woman  of'diis  worl 
— the  mother,  a  pious,  reflecting  being,  continually  prepar 
ing  herself  for  the  world  to  come.  With  the  latter,  Anna 
bel  would  have  acquired  principles — with  the  former 
she  could  only  learn  accomplishments ;  and  that  weakly 
judging  persons  encouraged  her  in  habits  of  mind  and  char 
acter  which  would  have  filled  both  her  father  and  mother 
widi  pain  and  apprehension. 

Vanity  was  her  ruling  passion  ;  and  this  her  grandmo- 
ther fostered  by  every  means  in  her  power.  She  gave 
her  elegant  dresses,  and  had  her  taught  showy  accom- 
plishments. She  delighted  to  hear  her  speak  of  herself, 
and  boast  of  the  compliments  paid  her  on  her  beauty  and 


THE    STAGE    COACH.  15 

her  talents.  Slio  was  even  weak  enough  to  admire  the 
skilful  falsehood  with  which  she  embellished  every  thing 
which  she  narrated  :  but  this  vicious  propensity  the  old 
lady  considered  only  as  a  proof  of  a  lively  fancy ;  and 
she  congratulated  herself  on  the  consciousness  how  much 
more  agreeable  her  fluent  and  inventive  Annabel  was, 
than  the  matter-of-fact  girls  with  whom  she  associated. 
But  while  Annabel  and  her  grandmother  were  on  a  visit  at 
Burford's  country-house,  and  while  the  parents  were  be- 
holding with  sorrow  the  conceit  and  flippancy  of  their  on- 
ly daughter,  they  were  plunged  at  once  into  comparative 
poverty,  by  the  ruin  of  some  of  Burford's  correspondents 
abroad,  and  by  the  fraudulent  conduct  of  a  friend  in  whom 
he  had  trusted.  In  a  few  short  weeks,  therefore,  the  ru- 
ined grandmother  and  her  adopted  child,  together  with  the 
parents  and  their  boys  ,  were  forced  to  seek  an  asylum  in 
the  heart  of  Wales,  and  live  on  the  slender  marriage  set- 
tlement of  Burford's  amiable  wife.  For  her  every  one 
felt,  as  it  was  thought  that  she  had  always  discouraged  that 
expensive  style  of  living  which  had  exposed  her  husband 
to  envy,  and  its  concomitant  detractions,  amongst  those 
whose  increase  in  wealth  had  not  kept  pace  with  his  own. 
He  had  also  carried  his  ambition  so  far,  that  he  had  even 
aspired  to  represent  his  native  city  in  parliament ;  and  as 
he  was  a  violent  politician,  some  of  the  opposite  party  not 
only  rejoiced  in  his  downfall,  but  were  ready  to  believe 
and  to  propagate  that  he  had  made  a  fraudulent  bankrupt- 
cy in  concert  with  his  friend  who  had  absconded,  and 
that  he  had  secured  or  conveyed  away  from  his  creditors 
money  to  a  considerable  amount.  But  the  tale  of  calum- 
ny, which  has  no  foundation  in  truth,  cannot  long  retain 
its  power  to  injure;  and,  in  process  of  time,  the  feelings 
of  the  creditors  in  general  were  so  completely  changed 
towards  Burford,  that  some  of  them  who  had  been  most 
decided  against  signing  his  certificate,  were  at  length 
brought  to  confess  that  it  was  a  matter  for  reconsidera- 
Uon.  Therefore,  when  a  distinguished  friend  of  his  fa- 
thers, who  had  been  strongly  prejudiced  against  him  at 
first,  repented  of  his  unjust  credulity,  and,  in  order  to 
make  him  amends*  pfTered  him  a  share  in  his  own  biosi- 


16  ILLUSTRATIONS   OF   LYING. 

ness,  all  the  creditors,  except  two  of  the  principal  ones, 
became  willing  to  sign  the  certificate.  Perhaps  there  is 
nothing  so  difficult  to  remove  from  some  minds  as  suspi- 
cions of  a  derogatory  nature ;  and  the  creditors  in  ques- 
tion were  envious,  worldly  men,  who  piqued  themselves  on 
their  shrewdness,  could  not  brook  the  idea  of  being  over- 
reached, and  were,  perhaps,  not  sorry  that  lie  whose  pros- 
perity had  excited  their  jealousy,  should  now  be  humbled 
before  them  as  a  dependant  and  a  suppliant.  However, 
even  they  began  to  be  tired  at  length  of  holding  out 
against  the  opinion  of  so  many  ;  and  Burford  had  the  com- 
fort of  being  informed,  after  he  had  been  some  months  in 
Wales,  that  matters  were  in  train  to  enable  him  to  get  in- 
to business  again,  with  restored  credit  and  renewed  pros- 
pects. 

"  Then,  who  knows,  Anna,"  said  he  to  his  wife,  "  but 
that  in  a  few  years  I  shall  be  able,  by  industry  and  econo- 
my, to  pay  all  that  I  owe,  both  principal  and  interest'? 
for,  till  I  have  done  so,  I  shall  not  be  really  happy ;  and 
then  poverty  will  be  robbed  of  its  sting." — "  Not  only 
so,"  she  replied, — "  we  could  never  have  given  our  chil- 
dren a  better  inheritance  than  this  proof  of  their  father's 
strict  integrity ;  and,  surely  my  dear  husband,  a  blessing  will 
attend  thy  labours  and  intentions." — "  I  humbly  trust  that 
it  will." — "  Yes,"  she  continued  ;  "  our  change  of  fortune 
has  humbled  onr  pride  of  heart,  and  the  cry  of  our  con- 
trition and  humility  has  not  ascended  in  vain." — "  Our 
pride  of  heart  !"  replied  Burford,  tenderly  embracing  her  ; 
"  it  was  7,  I  alone,  who  deserved  chastisement,  and  I  can- 
not bear  to  hear  thee  blame  thyself;  but  it  is  like  thee, 
Anna, — thou  art  ever  kind,  ever  generous  ;  however,  as  I 
like  to  be  obliged  to  thee,  I  am  contented  that  thou  shouldst 
talk  of  our  pride  and  our  chastisement."  While  these 
hopes  were  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  this  amiable  cou- 
ple, and  were  cheering  the  weak  mind  of  Burford's  mo- 
ther, which,  as  it  had  been  foolishly  elated  by  prosperity, 
was  now  as  improperly  depressed  by  adversity,  Annabel 
had  been  passing  several  months  at  the  house  of  a  school- 
fellow some  miles  from  her  father's  dwelling.  The  vain 
girl  had  felt  the  deepest  mortification  at  this  blight  to  her 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF     LYING-.  17 

worldly  prospects,  and  bitterly  lamented  being  no  longer 
able  to  talk  of  her  grandmother's  villa  and  carriages,  and 
her  father's  hot-houses  and  grounds ;  nor  could  she  help 
repining  at  the  loss  of  those  indulgences  to  which  she  had 
been  accustomed.  She  was  therefore  delighted  to  leave 
home  on  a  visit,  and  very  sorry  when  unexpected  circum- 
stances in  her  friend's  family  obliged  her  to  return  sooner 
than  she  intended.  She  was  compelled  also  to  return  by 
herself  in  a  public  coach, — a  great  mortification  to  her 
still  existing  pride  ;  but  she  had  now  no  pretensions  to 
travel  otherwise,  and  found  it  necessary  to  submit  to  cir- 
cumstances.— In  the  coach  were  one  young  man  and  two 
elderly  ones ;  and  her  companions  seemed  so  willing"  to 
pay  her  attention,  and  make  her  journey  pleasant  to  her, 
that  Annabel,  who  always  believed  herself  an  object  of  ad- 
miration, was  soou  convinced  that  she  had  made  a  con- 
quest of  the  youth,  and  that  the  others  thought  her  a  very 
sweet  creature.  She,  therefore,  gave  way  to  all  her  lo- 
quacious vivacity ;  she  hummed  tunes  in  order  to  show 
that  she  could  sing  ;  she  took  out  her  pencil  and  sketched 
wherever  they  stopped  to  change  horses,  and  talked  of  her 
own  boudoir,  her  own  maid,  and  all  the  past  glories  of 
her  state,  as  if  they  still  existed.  In  short,  she  tried  to 
impress  her  companions  with  a  high"  idea  of  her  conse- 
quence, and  as  if  unusual  and  unexpected  circumstances 
had  led  her  to  travel  incog.,  while  she  put  in  force  all  her 
attractions  against  their  poor  condemned  heart.  What 
an  odious  thing  is  a  coquette  of  sixteen  !  and  such  was 
Annabel  Burford.  Certain  it  is  that  she  became  an  ob- 
ject of  great  attention  to  the  gentlemen  with  her,  but  of 
admiration,  probably  to  the  young  man  alone,  who,  in 
her  youthful  beauty,  might  possibly  overlook  her  obvious 
defects.  During  the  journey,  one  of  the  elderly  gentlemen 
opened  a  basket  which  stood  near  him,  containing  some 
6ne  hot-house  grapes  and  flowers-  "  There,  young  lady,'* 
paid  he  to  her,  "  did  you  ever  see  such  fruit  as  this  before  V* 
".Oh  dear,  yes,  in  my  papa's  grapery."  "  Indeed  !  but 
did  you  ever  see  such  fine  flowers  1"  "  Oh  dear,  yes,  in 
papa's  succession-houses.  There  is  nothing,  I  assure  you, 
of  that  sort,"  she  added,  drawing  up  her  head  with  a  look 

B 


f8  ILLUSTRATIONS    01?    LYING. 

i 

cf  ineffable  conceit,  "  that  I  am  not  accustomed  to  :** — 
condescending,  however,  at  the  same  time,  to  eat  some  of 
the  grapes,  and  accept  some  of  the  flowers. 

It  was  natural  that  her  companions  should  now   be  ve- 
ry desirous  of  finding  out   what  princess  in  disguise  was 
deigning  to  travel  in  a  manner  so  unworthy  of  her  ;  and 
when  they  stopped  within  a  few  miles  of  her  home,  one  of 
the  gentlemen,  having  discovered  that  she  was  known  to  a 
passenger  on  the  top  of  the  coach,  who  was  about  to  leave 
it,  got  out  and  privately  asked  him  who  she  was.     "Bur- 
ford  !    Burford !"  cried  he,  when  he  heard  the  answer; 
"  what  !  the  daughter  of  Burford,  the  bankrupt  V* — "  Yes, 
the  same." — With  a  frowning  brow  he  re-entered  the 
coach,    and,    wheYi    seated,  whispered   the  old  gentleman 
next  him  ;  and  both   of  them,  having  exchanged   glances 
of  sarcastic  and  indignant    meaning,  looked  at  Annabel 
with  great  significance.     Nor  was  it  long  before  she  ob- 
served a  marked   change    in   their  manner   towards  her. 
They  answered  her  with  abruptness,  and  even  with  reluc- 
tance ;  till  at  length,  the  one  who  had  interrogated  her 
acquaintance  on  the  coach  said,  in  a   sarcastic  tone,  "  I 
conclude  that  you  were  speaking  just  now,  young  lady,  of 
the  fine  things  which  were  once  yours.      You  have  no 
graperies  and  succession-houses,  now,  I  take  it." — "  Dear 
me  !  why  not,  sir  1"  replied  the  conscious  girl,  in  a  trem- 
bling voice." — "Why  not  1  Why,  excuse  my    freedom, 
but  are  you  not  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Burford  the  bankrupt  V* 
IVever   was  a  child  more  tempted  to  deny  her  parentage* 
than  Annabel  was  ;  but,  though  with  great  reluctance,  she 
f  dtered  out,  "  Yes  ;  and  to  be   sure,  my  father  was  once 
unfortunate  ;  but" — here  she  looked  at  her  young  and  op- 
posite neighbour ;  and,  seeing  that  his  look  of  admiring 
respect,was  exchanged  for  one  of  ill-suppressed  laughter, 
she  felt  irresistibly  urged  to  add,  "  But  we  are  very  well 
off  now,  I  assure  you  ;  and  our  present  residence  is   so 
pretty  !  Such  a  sweet  garden  !  and  such  a  charming  hoU 
house  !" 

"Indeed!"  returned  the  old  man,  with  a  significant 
nod  to  his  friend  ;  "  well  then,  let  your  papa  take  care  lie 
&oes  no*  make  his  house  too  ho*  to  hold  him,  and  tha» 


THE    STAGE    COACH.  1-9 

another  house  be  riot  added  to  his  li.-t  of  residences." 
Here  he  laughed  heartily  at  his  own  wit,  and  was  echoed 
by  his  companion.  "  But  pray,  how  long  has  he  been 
thus  again  favoured  by  fortune  1 — Oh  dear!  I  cannot  say; 
but,  for  some  time;  and  I  assure  you' our  style  of  living 
is  very  complete," — "  I  do  not  doubt  it ;  for  children  and 
fools  speak  truth,  says  the  proverb;  and  sometimes,"  ad- 
ded he  in  a  low  voice,  "  the  child  and  the  fool  are  the 
same  person." — "  So,  so,"  he  muttered  aside  to  the  other 
traveller;  "gardens!  hot-houses!  carriage!  swindling, 
specious  rascal !"  But  Annabel  heard  only  the  first  part 
of  the  sentence  :  and  being  quite  satisfied  that  site  had 
recovered  all  her  consequence  in  the  eyes  of  her  young 
beau  by  two  or  three  white  lies,  as  she  termed  them 
(flights  of  fancy,  in  which  she  was  apt  to  indulge,)  she 
resumed  her  attack  on  his  heart,  and  continued  to  con- 
verse, in  her  most  seducing  manner,  till  the  coach  stop- 
ped, according  to  her  desire,  at  a  cottage  by  the  road- 
side, where  as  she  said,  her  father's  groom  was  to  meet 
her,  and  to  take  her  portmanteau.  The  truth  was,  that 
she  did  not  Choose  to  be  set  down  at  her  own  humble 
home,  which  was  at  the  further  end  of  the  village,  because 
it  would  not  only  tell  the  tale  of  her  fallen  fortunes,  but 
would  prove  the  falsehood  of  what  she  had  been  asserting. 
When  the  coach  stopped,  she  exclaimed  with  well  acted 
surprise,  "  Dear  me,  how  strange  that  the  servant  is  not 
waiting  for  me  !  But,  it  does  not  signify  ;  I  can  stop  here 
till  he  comes."  She  then  left  the  coach,  scarceiv  greeted 
by  her  elderly  companion,  but  followed,  as  she  fancied, 
by  looks  of  love  from  the  youth,  who  1;  in  led  her  out,  and 
expressed  his  great  regret  at  parting  with  her. 

The  parents,  meanwhile,  were  eagerly  expecting  her 
return;  for  though  the  obvious  defects  in  her  character 
gave  them  excessive  pain,  and  they  were  resolved  to  leave 
no  measures  untried  in  order  to  eradicate  them,  ikey  had 
missed  her  amusing  vivacity;  ami  even  their  low  and  eon- 
fined  dwelling  was  rendered  cheerful,  when,  with  her 
sweet  and  brilliant  tones,  she  went  carolling  about  the 
house.  Besides,  she  was  coming,  for  the  first  time  alone 
and  unexpected  ;  and,  as  the  coach  was  later  than  usual, 
the  anxious  tenderness  of  the  parental  heart  was  worked 


20  ILLUSTRATIONS   OP    LYING. 

up  to  a  high  pitch  of  feeling,  and  they  were  even  beginning 
to  share  the  fantastic  fears  of  the  impatient  grandmother, 
when  they  saw  the  coach  stop  at  a  distant  turn  of  the 
road,  and  soon  after  beheld  Annabel  coming  towards  them, 
who  was  fondly  clasped  to  those  affectionate  bosoms,  for 
which  her  unprincipled  falsehoods,  born  of  the  most  con- 
temptible vanity,  had  prepared  fresh  trials  and  fresh  inju- 
ries :  for  her  elderly  companions  were  her  father's  princi- 
pal and  relentless  creditors,  who  had  been  down  to  Wyn- 
staye  on  business,  and  were  returning  thence,  to  London  ; 
intending  when  they  arrived  there  to  assure  Sir  James  Al- 
berry, — that  friend  of  Bur  ford's  father,  who  resided  in 
London,  and  wished  to  take  him  into  partnership, — that 
they  were  no  longer  averse  to  sign  his  certificate  ;  being 
at  length  convinced  he  was  a  calumniated  man.  But  now 
all  their  suspicions  were  renewed  and  confirmed ;  since  it 
was  easier  for  them  to  believe  that  Burford  was  still  the 
villain  which  they  always  thought  him,  than  that  so  young 
a  girl  should  have  told  so  many  falsehoods  at  the  mere 
impulse  of  vanity.  They  therefore  became  more  invete- 
rate against  her  poor  father  than  ever  ;  and  though  their 
first  visit  to  the  metropolis  was  to  the  gentlemen  in  ques- 
tion, it  was  now  impelled  by  a  wish  to  injure,  notto  serve 
him.  How  differently  would  they  have  felt,  had  the  vain 
and  false  Annabel  allowed  the  coach  to  set  her  down  at 
her  father's  lowly  door  !  and  had  they  beheld  the  interior 
arrangement  of  his  house  and  family  !  Had  they  seen 
neatness  and  order  giving  attraction  to  cheap  and  ordina- 
ry furniture;  had  they  beheld  the  simple  meal  spread  out 
to  welcome  the  wanderer  home,  and  the  Bible  and  Prayer- 
book  ready  for  the  evening  service,  which  was  deferred  till 
it  could  be  shared  again  with  her  whose  return  would  add 
fervour  to  the  devotion  of  that  worshipping  family,  and 
would  call  forth  additional  expressions  of  thanksgiving  !  . 
The  dwelling  of  Burford  was  that  of  a  man  improved  by 
trials  past; — of  one  who  looked  forward  with  thankfulness 
and  hope  to  the  renewed  possession  of  a  competence,  in 
the  belief  that  he  should  now  be  able  to  make  a  wiser  and 
nolier  use  of  it  than  he  had  done  before.  His  wife  had 
needed  no  such  lesson ;  though,  in  the  humility  of  her 
heart*  ehe    thought  otherwise  -}  and  site  had  helped  her 


THE    STAGE    COACH.  21 

husband  to  impress  on  the  yielding  minds  of  her  boys,  who 
(happier  than  their  sister)  had  never  left  her,  that  a  sea- 
son of  worldly  humiliation  is  more  safe  and  blessed  than 
one  of  worldiy  prosperity — while  their  Welch  cottage  and 
wild  mountain  garden  had  been  converted,  by  her  resourc- 
es, and  her  example,  into  a  scene  of  such  rural  industry 
and  innocent  amusement,  that  they  could  no  longer  regret 
the  splendid  house  and  grounds  which  they  had  been  oblig- 
ed to  resign.  The  grandmother,  indeed,  had  never  ceas- 
ed to  mourn  and  to  murmur  ;  and,  to  her,  the  hope  of 
seeing  a  return  of  brighter  days,  by  means  of  a  new  part- 
nership, was  beyond  measure  delightful.  But  she  was 
doomed  to  be  disappointed,  through  those  errors  in  the 
child  of  her  adoption  which  she  had  at  lest  encouraged,  if 
she  had  not  occasioned. 

It  was  with  even  clamorous  delight,  that  Annabel,  after 
this  absence  of  a  few  months,  was  welcomed  by  her  bro- 
thers :  the  parents'  welcome  was  of  a  quieter,  deeper  na- 
ture ;  while  the  grandmother's  first  solicitude  was  to  as- 
certain how  she  looked;  and  having  convinced  herself  that 
she  was  returned  handsomer  than  ever,  her  joy  was  as 
loud  as  that  of  the  boys. — "  Do  come  hither,  Bell,"  said 
one  of  her  brothers — "  we  have  so  much  to  show  you  ! 
The  old  cat  has  such  nice  kittens  !" — <J  Yes  ;  and  my  rab- 
bits have  all  young  ones  !"  cried  another. — "  And  I  and 
mamma,"  cried  the  third  boy,  "  have  put  large  stones  in- 
to the  bed  of  the  mountain  rill ;  so  now  it  makes  such  a 
nice  noise  as  it  flows  over  them  !  Do  come,  Bell ;  do, 
pray,  come  with  us  !" — But  the  evening  duties  were  first 
to  be  performed ;  and  performed  they  were,  with  more 
than  usual  solemnity  ;  but  after  them  Annabel  had  to  eat 
her  supper ;  and  she  was  so  engrossed  in  relating  her  ad- 
ventures in  the  coach,  and  with  describing  the  attentions 
of  her  companions,  that  her  poor  brothers  were  not  at- 
tended to.  In  vain  did  her  mother  say,  "  Do,  Annabel, 
go  with  your  brothers  !  and  add,  "  Go  now  ;  for  it  is 
near  their  bed  time  !"  She  was  too  fond  of  hearing  her- 
self talk,  and  of  her  grandmother's  flatteries,  to  be  willing 
to  leave  the  room  ;  and  though  her  mother  was  disap- 
pointed at  her  selfishness,  she  could  not  bear  to  chide  he* 
on  the  first  night  of  her  re&irn. 


22  ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    LYINc*. 

When  Annabel  was  alone  with  her  grandmother,  she 
ventured  to  communicate  to  her  what  a  fearful  conscious- 
ness of  not  having  done  right  had  led  her  to  conceal  from 
her  parents ;  and,  after  relating  all  that  had  passed  rela- 
tive to  the  fruit  and  flowers,  she  repeated  the  cruel  ques- 
tion of  the  old  man,  "  Are  you  not  the  daughter  of  Mr. 
Burford  the  bankrupt  V  and  owned  what  her  reply  was  : 
on  which  her  grandmother  exclaimed,  with  great  emotion, 
"  Unthinking  girl  !  you  know  not  what  injury  you  may 
have  done  your  father  !"  She  then  asked  for  a  particular 
description  of  the  persons  of  the  old  men,  saying,  "  Well, 
well,  it  cannot  be  helped  now — I  may  be  mistaken  ;  but 
be  sure  not   to   tell  your  mother   what  you  have  told  me." 

For  some  days  after  Annabel's  return,  all  went  on  well ; 
and  their  domestic  felicity  would  have  been  so  complete, 
that  Burford  and  his  wife  would  have  much  disliked  any 
idea  of  change,  had  their  income  been  sufficient  to  give 
their  boys  good  education  ;  but,  as  it  was  only  just  suffi- 
cient for  their  maintenance,  they  looked  forward  with  anx- 
ious expectation  to  the  arrival  of  a  summons  to  London, 
and  to  their  expected  residence  there.  Still  the  idea  of 
leaving  their  present  abode  was  really  painful  to  all,  save 
Annabel  and  her  grandmother.  They  thought  the  rest  of 
the  family  devoid  of  proper  spirit,  and  declared  that  living 
in  Wales  was  not  living  at  all. 

But  a  stop  was  now  put  to  eager  anticipations  on  the 
one  hand,  or  of  tender  regrets  on  the  other ;  for  while 
Burford  was  expecting  daily  to  receive  remittances  irom 
Sir  James  Alberry,  to  enable  him  to  transport  himself  and 
his  family  to  the  metropolis,  that  gentleman  wrote  to  him 
us  follows  : — 

"  Sir, 
"  All  connection  between  us  is  forever  at  end  5  and'I 
have  given  the  share  in  my  business,  which  was  intended 
for  you,  to  the  worthy  man,  who  has  so  long  solicited  it. 
I  thought  I  had  done  you  injustice,  sir ;  I  wished  there- 
fore to  make  you  amends.  But  I  find  you  what  you  are 
represented  to  be,  a  fraudulent  bankrupt  ;  and  your  certifi- 
cate noiv  will  never  be  signed.  Should  you  wonder 
what  has  occasioned  this  change  in  my  feelings  and  pro- 


THE  STAGE  COACH.  23 

E 

ceedings,  1  am  at  liberty  to  inform  you  that  your  daughter 
travelled  in  a  stage  coach,  a  few  days  ago,  with  your  two 
principal  creditors  ;  and  I  am  desired  to  add,  that  chil- 
dren and  fools  speak  truth. 

"James  Alberry." 

When  Burford  had  finished  reading  this  letter  it  fell  from 
his  grasp,  and,  clasping  his  bands  convulsively  together,  he 
exclaimed,  "  Ruined  and  disgraced  for  ever  !"  then  rushed 
into  his  own  chamber.  His  terrified  wife  followed  him 
with  the  unread  letter  in  her  hand,  looking  the  enquiries 
which  she  eould  not  utter. — "Read  that*"  he  replied, 
"  and  see  that  Sir  James  Alberry  deems  me  a  villain  !" 
She  did  read,  and  with  a  shaking  frame;  but  it  was  not 
the  false  accusation  of  her  husband,  nor  the  loss  of  the  ex- 
pected partnership,  that  thus  agitated  her  firm  nerves,  and 
firmer  mind;  it  was  the  painful  conviction,  that  Annabel, 
by  some  means  unknown  to  her,  had  been  the  cause  of  this 
mischief  to  her  father  ; — a  conviction  whicl?  considerably 
increased  Burford's  agony,  when  she  pointed  out  the  pas- 
sage in  Sir  James's  letter  alluding  to  Annabel,  who  was 
immediately  summoned,  and  desired  to  explain  Sir  James's 
mysterious  meaning.  "  Dear  me  !  papa,"  cried  she, 
changing  colour,  u  I  am  sure,  if  I  had  thought, — I  am 
sure  I  could  not  think, — nasty,  ill-natured  old  man  !  I  ana 
sure  I  only  said — ."  "  But  what  did  yon  say  V  cried 
her  agitated  father. — "  I  can  explain  all,"  said  hie  mother, 
who  had  entered  uncalled  for,  and  read  the  letter.  She 
then  repeated  what  Annabel  had  told,  but  softening  it  as 
much  as  she  could  ; — however,  she  told  enough  to  show 
the  agonizing  parents  that  their  child  was  not  only  the 
cause  of  disappointment  and  disgrace  to  them,  but  a 
mean,  vain-glorious,  and  despicable  liar  !  **  The  only 
amends  which  you  can  now  make  us,"  said  Burford,  "  is 
to  tell  the  whole  truth,  unhappy  child!  and  then  we  must 
see  what  can  be  done  ;  for  my  reputation  must  be  cleared, 
even  at  the  painful  expense  of  exposing  you."  Nor  was 
it  long  before  the  mortified  Annabel,  with  a  heart  awaken- 
ed to  contrition  by  hei  mother's  gentle  repoofs,  and  the  ten- 
der teachings  of  a  motner's  love,  made  an  ample  confession 
of  all  that  had  passed  in  thestq^e  coach  J  on  hearing  which, 


24  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYING. 

Burfbrd  instantly  resolved  to  set  off  for  London.  But  how 
was  he  to  get  thither  1  He  had  no  money  ;  as  he  had  re- 
cently been  obliged  to  pay  some  debts  of  his  still  thought- 
less and  extravagant  mother  ;  nor  could  he  bear  to  borrow 
of  his  neighbour  what  he  was  afraid  he  might  be  for  some 
time  unable  to  return.  "  Cruel,  unprincipled  girl !"  cried 
he,  as  he  paced  their  little  room  in  agony ;  "  see  to  what 
misery  thou  hast  reduced  they  father  !  However,  I  must  go 
to  London  immediately,  though  it  be  on  foot." — "  Well, 
really,  I  don't  see  any  very  great  harm  in  what  the  poor 
child  did,"  cried  his  mother,  distressed  at  seeing  Annabel's 
tears.  "  It  was  very  trying  to  her  to  be  reproached  with 
her  father's  bankruptcy  and  her  fallen  fortunes  ;  and  it  was 
very  natural  for  her  to  say  as  she  did." — "  Natural  !"  ex- 
claimed the  indignant  mother ;  "  natural  for  my  child  to 
utter  falsehood  on  falsehood,  and  at  the  instigation  of  a 
mean  vanity  !  Natural  for  my  child  to  shrink  from  the 
avowal  of  poverty,  which  was  unattended  with  disgrace  ! 
Oh  !  make  us  not  more  wretched  than  we  were  before,  by 
trying  to  lessen  Annabel's  faults  in  her  own  eyes  !  Our  on- 
ly comfort  is  the  hope  that  she  is  ashamed  of  herself." — ■ 
•*  But  neither  her  shame  nor  penitence,"  cried  Burford, 
•*  will  give  me  the  quickest  means  of  repairing  the  effects 
of  her  error.  However,  as  I  cannot  ride,  I  must  walk,  to 
London ;"  while  his  wife,  alarmed  at  observing  the  dew 
of  weakness  which  stood  upon  his  brow,  and  the  faint  flush 
which  overspead  his  cheek,  exclaimed,  "  But  will  not  writ- 
ing to  Sir  James  be  sufficient  1" — "  No.  My  appearance 
will  corroborate  my  assurances  too  well.  The  only  writing 
necessary  will  be  a  detail  from  Annabel  of  all  that  passed 
in  the  coach,  and  a  confession  of  her  fault." — "What! 
exact  from  your  child  such  a  disgraceful  avowal,  Wil- 
liam !"  cried  the  angry  grandmother.—"  Yes  ;  for  it  is  a 
punishment  due  to  her  transgression ;  and  she  may  think 
herself  happy  if  its  consequences  end  here." — "  Here's  a 
fuss,  indeed,  about  a  little  harmless  puffing  and  white  ly- 
ing J" — «  Harmless  !"  replied  Burford,  in  tone  of  indigna- 
tion, while  his  wife  exclaimed,  in  the  agony  of  a  wound- 
ed spirit,  "  Oh  !  mother,  mother  !  do  not  make  us  deplore, 
more  than  we  already  do,  that  fatal  hour  when  weconsent- 
ed  to  surrender  our  dearest  duties  at  the  call  of  compas- 


THE  STAGE  COACH.  25 

sicm  for  your  sorrow?,  and  entrusted  the  care  of  our  child's 
precious  soul  to  your  erroneous  tenderness  !  But,  I  trust 
that  Annabel  deeply  feels  her  sinfulness,  and  that  the  ef- 
fects of  a  mistaken  education  may  have  been  counteracted 
in  time." 

The  next  day,  having  procured  the  necessary  document 
from  Annabel,  Burford  set  off  on  his  journey,  intending  to 
travel  occasionally  Oil  the  tops  of  coaches,  being  well 
aware  that  he  was  not  in  a  state  of  health  to  walk  the 
whole  way. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Sir  James  Alberry,  the  London  mer- 
chant, to  whom  poor  Burford  was  then  pursuing  his  long 
and  difficult  journey,  was  beginning  to  suspect  that  he 
had  acted  hastily  ;  and,  perhaps,  unjustly.  He  had 
written  his  distressing  letter  in  the  moments  of  his  first 
indignation,  on  hearing  the  statement  of  the  two  creditors  ; 
and  he  had  moreover  written  it  under  their  dictation  ;— 
and,  as  the  person  who  had  long  wished  to  be  admitted  in- 
to partnership  with  him  happened  to  call  at  the  same  time, 
and  had  taken  advantage  of  Burford's  supposed  delinquen- 
cy, he  had,  without  further  hesitation,  granted  his  request. 
But  as  Sir  James,  though  a  rash  was  a  kind-hearted, 
man,  when  his  angry  feelings  had  subsided,  the  rebound  of 
them  was  in  favour  of  the  poor  accused  ;  and  he  reproach- 
ed himself  for  having  condemned  and  punished  a  supposed 
culprit,  before  he  was  even  heard  in  his  defence.  There- 
fore, having  invited  Burford's  accusers  to  return  to  dinner, 
lie  dismissed  them  as  soon  as  he  could,  and  went  in  search 
of  his  wife,  wishing,  but  not  expecting,  his  hasty  proceed- 
ing to  receive  the  approbation  of  her  candid  spirit  and  dis- 
criminating judgment.  "What  is  all  this  V*  cried  Lady 
Alberry,  when  he  had  done  speaking.  "  Is  it  possible  that, 
on  the  evidence,  of  these  two  men,  who,  have  shown  them- 
selves inveterate  enemies  of  the  poor  bankrupt,  you  have 
broken  your  promise  to  him,  and  pledged  it  to  another  V' 
— "  Yes ;  and  my  letter  to  Burford  is  gone.  I  wish  I  had 
shown  it  to  you  before  it  went;  but,  surely  Burford's  child 
could  not  have  told  them  falsehoods." — "  That  depends  on 
her  education." — "True,  Jane;  and  she- was  brought  up, 
you  know,  by  that  paragon,  her  mother,  who  cannot  do 
wrong." — "  No  ;  she  was  brought  up  by  that  weak  woman. 


^6  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

her  grandmother,  who  is  not  likely,  I  fear,  ever  to  do  right. 
Had  her  pious  mother  educated  her,  I  should  have  been 
sure  that  Annabel  Burford  could  noi  have  told  a  lie. 
However,  I  shall  see,  and  interrogate  the  accusers.  In  tua 
meanwhile  I  must  regret  your  excessive  precipitancy." 

As  Lady  Alberry  was  a  woman  who  scrupulously  per- 
formed all  her  religious  and  moral  duties,  she  was,  con- 
sequently, always  observant  of  that  holy  command,  "  not  to 
take  up  a  reproach  against  her  neighbour."  She  was, 
therefore,  very  unwilling  to  believe  the  truth  of  this  charge 
against  Burford  ;  and  thought  it  was  more  likely  an  ill-ed- 
ucated girl  should  tell  a  falsehood,  which  had  also,  perhaps, 
been  magnified  by  involuntary  exaggeration  than  that  the  hus- 
band of  such  a  woman  as  Anna  Burford  should  be  the  delin- 
quent which  his  old  creditors  described  him  to  be.  For  she 
had  in  former  days,  been  thrown  into  society  with  Burford's 
wife,  and  had  felt  attracted  towards  her  by  the  strongest  of 
all  sympathies,  that  of  entire  unity  on  those  subjects  most 
onnectcd  with  our  welfare  here,  and  hereafter  ;  those  sym- 
athies  which  can  convert  stangers  into  friends,  and  draw 
them  together  in  the  enduring  ties  of  pure,  Christian  love. 
"No,  no,"  said  she  to  herself;  "  the  beloved  husband  of 
such  a  woman  cannot  be  a  villain  :"  and  she  awaited  with 
benevolent  impatience  the  arrival  jf  her  expected  guests. 

They  came,  accompanied  by  Charles  DanversvAnnabel's 
young  fellow-traveller,  who  was  nephew  to  one  of  them ; 
and  Lady  Alberry  lost  no  time  in  drawing  from  them  an 
exact  detail  of  all  that  had  passed.  "And  this  girl,  you 
say,  was  a  forward,  conceited,  set-up  being,  full  of  herself 
and  her  accomplishments  ;  in  short  the  creature  of  vanity." 
— "  Yes,"  replied  one  of  the  old  men,  "  it  was  quite  a 
comedy  to  look  at  her  and  hear  her!" — "But  what  says 
my  young  friend  1" — "The  same.  She  is  very  pretty; 
but  a  model  of  affectation,  boasting,  and  vanity.  Now  she 
was  hanging  her  head  on  one  side — then  looking  languish- 
ingly  with  her  eyes ;— and  when  my  uncle,  coarsely,  as  I 
thought,  talked  of  her  father  as  a  bankrupt,  her  expression 
of  angry  mortification  was  so  ludicrous,  that  I  could  scarce- 
ly help  laughing.  Nay,  I  do  assure  you,"  he  continued, 
"  that  had  we  been  left  alone  a  few  minutes,  I  should  hava 
been  made  the  confidant   of  her  love-affairs  ;  forsheedghr 


THE    STAGE    COACH.  27 

ed  deeply  once,  and  asked  me,  with  an  affected  lisp,  if  I 
did  not  think  it  a  dangerous  thing  to  have  a  too  susceptiblo 
heart  1"  As  he  said  this,  after  the  manner  of  Annabel,  both 
the  old  men  exclaimed,  "  Admirable  !  that  is  she  to  the 
life  !  I  think  that  I  see  her  and  hear  her  !" — "  But,  I  dare 
say,"  said  Lady  A I  berry  gravely,  "  that  you  paid  her  com- 
pliments, and  pretended  to  admire  notwithstanding." — "  I 
own  it ;  for  how  could  I  refuse  the  incense  which  every 
look  and  gesture  demanded  1" — "  A  principle  of  truth, 
young  man  !  would  have  enabled  you  to  do  it.  What  a 
fine  lesson  it  would  be  for  poor  flattered  woman,  if  we 
could  know  how  meanly  men  think  of  us,  even  when  they 
flatter  us  the  most." — "  But  dear  Lady  Alberry,  this  girl 
seemed  to  me  a  mere  child  ;  a  coquette  of  the  nursery  : 
still,  had  she  been  older,  her  evident  vanity  would  have 
secured  me  against  her  beauty.—"  You  are  mistaken, 
Charles;  this  child  is  almost  seventeen.  But  now,  gen- 
tlemen, as  just  men,  I  appeal  to  you  all,  whether  it  is  not 
more  likely  that  this  vainglorious  girl  told  lies,  than  that 
her  father,  the  husband  of  one  of  the  best  of  women, 
should  be  guilty  of  the  grossest  dishonesty  1" — "  I  must 
confess,  Jane,  that  you  have  convinced  me,"  said  Sir 
James  ;  but  the  two  creditors  only  frowned,  and  spoke  not. 
"  But  consider,"  said  this  amiable  advocate  ;  "  if  thf» 
girl's  habitation  was  so  beautiful,  was  it  not  inconsistent 
with  her  boasting  propensities  that  she  should  not  choose  to 
be  set  down  at  it  1  And  if  her  father  still  had  carriages  and 
servants,  would  they  not  have  been  sent  to  meet  her  t  And 
if  he  were  really  rich,  would  she  have  been  allowed  to 
travel  alone  in  a  stage  coach  1 — Impossible  ;  and  I  con- 
jure you  to  suspend  your  severe  judgment  of  an  unfortu- 
nate man,  till  you  have  sent  some  one  to  see  how  he  really 
lives." 

"  I  am  forced  to  return  to  Wynstaye  to-morrow," 
growled  out  Charles's  uncle  ;  "  therefore,  suppose  I  go 
myself."-—"  We  had  fixed  to  go  into  Wales  ourselves 
next  week,"  replied  Lady  Alberry,  "  on  a  visit  to  a  dear 
friend  who  lives  not  far  from  Wynstaye.  Therefore,  what 
say  you,  Sir  James  1  Had  we  not  better  go  with  oui 
friend  1  For  if  you  have  done  poor  Burford  injustice,  the 
sooner  you  make  him  reparation,  and  in  perstHit  the  bet- 


£8  ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    LYING, 

ter.  To  this  proposal  Sir  James  gladly  assented ;  and 
they  set  off  for  Wales  the  next  day,  accompanied  by  the 
uncle  and  the  nephew. 

As  Lady  Alberry  was  going  to  her  chamber,  on  the 
second  night  of  their  journey,  she  was  startled  by  the 
sound  of  deep  groans,  and  a  sort  of  delirious  raving,  from 
a  half-open  door.  "  Surely,"  said  she  to  the  landlady, 
who  was  conducting  her, "  there  is  some  one  very  ill  in 
that  room."—"  Oh  dear  !  yes,  my  lady  ;  a  poor  man  who 
was  picked  upon  the  road  yesterday.  He  had  walked  all 
the  way  from  the  heart  of  Wales,  till  he  was  so  tired,  he 
got  on  a  coach  ;  and  he  supposes  that,  from  weakness, 
he  fell  ot  in  the  night;  and  not  being  missed,  he  lay  till 
he  was  found  and  brought  hither."— "  Has  any  medical 
man  seen  him  1"—"  Not  yet ;  for  our  surgeon  lives  a  good 
way  off;  and  as  he  had  his  senses  when  he  first  came,  we 
hoped  he  was  not  much  hurt.  He  was  able  to  tell  us  that 
he  only  wanted  a  garret,  as  he  was  very  poor  ;  and  yet, 
my  lady,  he  looks  and  speaks  so  like  a  gentleman  !"— 
"  Poor  creature  !  he  must  be  attended  to,  and  a  medical 
man  sent  for  directly,  as  he  is  certainlv  not  sensible  now: 
— "  Hark  !  lie  is 
I  cannot  tell  wha 

Lady  Alberry,  whose  heart  always  yearned  towards  the 
afljiqted  ;  "  and  I  think  that  I  am  myself  no  bad  doctor." 
Accordingly,  she  entered  the  room  just  as  the  sick  man 
exclaimed,  in  his  delirium,  "  Cruel  Sir  James  !  la  fraud 
ulent  ....  Oh!  my  dearest  Anna!"  .  .  .  and  Lady 
Alberry  recognized,  in  the  poor  raving  being  before  her, 
the  calumniated  Burford  !  "  I  know  him  !"  she  cried, 
burst  ins  into  tears;  "we  will  be  answerable  for  all  ex- 
penses." She  then  went  in  search  of  Sir  James ;  ani 
having  prepared  him  as  tenderly  as  she  could  for  jthe  pain- 
ful scene  which  awaited  him,  she  led  him  to  the  bedside 
of  the  unconscious  invalid; — then,  while  Sir  James, 
shocked  and  distressed  beyond  measure,  interrogated  the 
landlady.  Lady  Alberry  examined  the  nearly-threadbare 
coat  of  the  supposed  rich  man,  which  lay  on  "the  bed,  and 
searched  for  the  slenderly-filled  purse,  of  which  he  had 
himself  spoken.  She  found  there  Sir  James's  letter, 
which  had,  she  doubted  not,  occasioned  his  journey  and 


s  raving  again,  and  all  about  his  wife,  anc 
at." — "  I  should  like  to   see    him,"    saic 


THE    STAGE   COACH.  29 

his  illness;  and  which,  therefore,  in  an  agony  of  repent- 
ant feeling,  her  husband  tore  into  atoms.  In  the  same 
pocket  he  found  Annabel's  confession  ;  and  when  they 
left  the  chamber,  having  vainly  waited  in  hopes  of  being 
recognized  by  the  poor  invalid,  they  returned  to  their 
fellow-travellers,  carrying  with  them  the  evidences  of 
Burford's  scanty  means,  in  corroboration  of  the  tale  of 
suffering  and  fatigue  which  they  had  to  relate.  "  See  !" 
said  Lady  Alberry,  holding  up  the  coat,  and  emptying  the 
purse  on  the  table,  "  are  these  signs  of  opulence  1  and  is 
travelling  on  foot,  in  a  hot  June  day,  a  proof  of  splendid 
living  V  While  the  harsh  creditor,  as  he  listened  to  the 
tale  of  delirium,  and  read  the  confession  of  Annabel,  re- 
gretted the  hasty  credence  which  he  had  given  to  her 
falsehoods. 

But  what  was  best  to  be  done  1  To  send  for  Burford's 
wife; — and,  till  she  arrived  to  nurse  him,  Sir  James  and 
Lady  Alberry  declared  that  they  would  not  leave  the  inn. 
It  was  therefore  agreed  that  the  nephew  should  go  to  Bur- 
ford's house  in  the  barouche,  and  escort  his  wife  back. 
He  did  so;  and  while  Annabel,  lost  in  painful  thought, 
was  walking  on  the  road,  she  saw  the  barouche  driving 
up,  with  her  young  fellow-traveller  in  it.  As  it  requires 
great  suffering  to  subdue  such  overweening  vanity  as  Anna- 
bel's, her  first  thought,  on  seeing  him,  was,  that  her  youth- 
ful beau  was  a  young  heir,  who  had  travelled  in  disguise, 
and  was  now  come  in  state  to  make  her  an  offer  !  She, 
therefore,  blushed  with  pleasure  as  he  approached,  and  re- 
ceived his  bow  with  a  countenance  of  joy.  But  his  face 
expressed  no  answering  pleasure  ;  and,  coldly  passing  her, 
he  said  his  business  was  witji  her  mother,  who,  alarmed, 
she  scarcely  knew  why,  stood  trembling  at  the  door ;  nor 
was  she  less  alarmed  when  the  feeling  youth  told  his  errand, 
Jn  broken  and  faltering  accents,  and  delivered  Lady  Al- 
berry's  letter.  "  Annabel  must  go  with  me  !"  said  her 
mother,  in  a  deep  and  solemn  tone.  Then,  lowering  her 
voice,  because  unwilling  to  reprove  her  before  a  stranger, 
she  added,  "  Yes,  my  child  !  thou  must  go,  to  see  the  ef- 
fects of  thy  errors,  and  take  sad,  but  salutary,  warning 
for  the  rest  of  thy  life.  We  shall  not  detain  you  long, 
Sir,"  she  continued,  turning  to  Charles  Daovers  ;  "  our 
Blender  wardrobe  can  be  soon  prepared." 


60  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

In  a  short  time,  the  calm,  but  deeply  suffering,  wife,  and 
the  weeping  humbled  daughter,  were  on  the  road  to  the 
Inn.  The  mother  scarcely  spoke  during  the  whole  of  the 
journey ;  but  she  seemed  to  pray  a  great  deal ;  and  the 
young  man  was  so  affected,  with  the  subdued  anguish  of 
the  one,  and  the  passionate  grief  of  the  other,  that,  he  de- 
clared to  Lady  Alherry,  he  had  never  been  awakened  to 
such  serious  thought  before,  and  hoped  to  be  the  better  for 
the  journey  through  the  whole  of  his  existence  ;  while,  in 
her  penitent  sorrow,  he  felt  inclined  to  forget  Annabel's 
fault,  coquetry,  and  affectation. 

When  they  reached  the  inn,  the  calmness  of  the  wife 
was  entirely  overcome  at  the  sight  of  Lady  Alberry,  who, 
opened  l»er  arms  to  receive  her  with  the  kindness  of  an  at- 
tached friend  ;  whispering,  as  she  did  so,  "  lie  has  been 
sensible ;  and  he  knew  Sir  James ;  knew  him  as  an  af- 
fectionate friend  and  nurse  !" — "  Gracious  heaven,  I  thank 
thee  !"  she  replied  hastening  to  his  apartment,  leading 
the  reluctant  Annabel  along.  But  he  did  not  know  them ; 
and  his  wife  was  at  first  speechless  with  sorrow  :  at. 
length,  recovering  her  calmness,  she  said,  "  See  !  dear, 
unhappy  girl  !  to  what  thy  sinfulness  has  reduced  thy  fond 
father  !  Humble  thyself,  my  child,  before  the  Great  Being 
whom  thou  hast  offended ;  and  own  his  mercy  in  the  aw- 
ful warning  !"  "  I  am  humbled,  I  am  warned,  I  trust," 
cried  Annabel,  falling  on  her  knees;  "but,  if  he  die,  what 
will  become  of  me  1" — "  What  will  become  of  us  all  ?" 
replied  the  mother,  shuddering  at  the  bare  idea  of  losing 
him,  but  preparing,  with  forced  composure,  for  her  im- 
portant duties.  Trying  ones  indeed  they  were,  through 
many  days  and  nights,  that  the  wife  and  daughter  had  to 
watch  beside  the  bed  of  the  unconscious  Burford.  The 
one  heard  herself  kindly  invoked,  and  tenderly  desired,  and 
her  absence  Wondered  at  ;  while  the  other  never  heard 
her  name  mentioned,  during  the  ravings  of  lever,  without 
heart-rending  upbraidings,  and  just  reproofs.  But  Bur- 
ford's  life  was  granted  to  the  prayers  of  agonizing  affec- 
tion and,  when  recollection  returned,  he  had  the  joy  of 
knowing  that  his  reputation  was  cleared,  that  his  angry 
creditors  were  become  his  kind  friends^  and  that  Sir 
James  Alberry  lamented,  with  bitter  regret,  that  he  could 


THE  6TAGE  COACH.  31 

no  longer  prove  his  confidence  in  him  by  making  him  his 
partner.  But,  notwithstanding  this  blight  to  his  prospects, 
Burford  piously  blessed  the  event  which  had  had  so  saluta- 
ry an  influence  on  his  offending  child  :  and  had  taught  her 
a  lesson  which  she  was  not  likely  to  forget.  Lady  Alber- 
ry,  liowever,  thought  that  the  lesson  was  not  yet  sufficient- 
ly complete ;  for,  though  Annabel  might  he  cured  of  ly- 
ing by  the  consequences  of  her  falsehoods,  the  vanity 
of  which  prompted  them  might  still  remain  uncorrected. 
Therefore,  as  Annabel  had  owned  that  it  was  the  wish 
not  to  lose  consequence  in  the  eyes  of  her  supposed  admir- 
er, which  had  led  her  to  her  last  fatal  falsehood,  Lady  Al- 
berrv,  with  the  mother's  approbation,  contrived  a  plan  for 
laying  the  axe,  if  possible,  to  the  root  of  her  vanity ;  and 
ehe  took  the  earliest  opportunity  of  asking  Charles  Dan- 
vers,  in  her  precence,  and  that  of  her  mother,  some  partic- 
ulars concerning  what  passed  in  the  coach,  and  his  opinion 
on  the  subject.  As  she  expected,  he  gave  a  softened  and 
favourable  representation  ;  and  would  not  allow  that  he 
did  not  form  a  favourable  opinion  of  his  fair  companion. 
"  What  !  Charles,"  said  she,  "  do  you  pretend  to  deny 
that  you  mimicked  her  voice  and  manner  V  She  then  re- 
peated all  that  he  had  said,  and  his  declaration  that  her 
evident  vanity  and  coquetry  steeled  his  heart  against  her, 
copying,  at  the  same  time,  his  accurate  mimickryof  An- 
nabel's manner ;  nor  did  she  rest  till  she  had  drawn  from 
him  a  full  avowal  that  what  he  had  asserted  was  true ; 
for,  Lady  Alberry  was  not  a  woman  to  be  resisted ;  while 
the  mortified,  humbled,  but  corrected  Annabel,  could  only 
hide  her  face  in  her  mother's  bosom  ;  who,  while  she  felt 
for  the  salutary  pangs  inflicted  on  her,  mingled  caresses 
with  her  tears,  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  that  the  mortifi- 
cation which  she  endured  was  but  for  a  moment ;  and  the 
benefit  would  be,  she  trusted,  of  eternal  duration.  The 
lesson  was  now  complete  indeed.  Annabel  found  that  she 
had  not  only,  by  her  lies  of  vanity,  deprived  her  father  of  a 
lucrative  business,  but  she  had  exposed  herself  to  the  rid- 
icule and  contempt  of  that  very  being  who  had  been  the 
cause  of  her  error  ;  and,  in  tne  depth  of  her  humbled  and 
contrite  heart,  she  resolved  from  that  moment  to  struggle 
with  her  besetting  sins,  and  subdue  them<     Nor  was  the 


32  ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    LYING. 

resolve  of  that  trying  moment  ever  broken.  But  vhcn  her 
father,  whose  original  destination  had  been  the  church, 
was  led,  by  his  own  wishes,  to  take  orders,  and  was,  in 
process  of  time,  inducted  into  a  considerable  living,  in  the 
gift  of  Sir  James  Alberry,  Annabel  rivalled  her  mother  in 
performing  the  duties  of  her  new  station  :  and,  when  she 
became  a  wife  and  mother  herself,  she  had  a  mournful  sat- 
isfaction in  relating  the  above  story  to  her  children  ;  bid- 
ding them  beware  of  all  lying  ;  but  more  especially  of  that 
common  lie,  the  lie  of  vanity,  whether  it  be  active  or  pas- 
sive. "  Not,"  said  she, "  that  retributive  justice  in  this 
world,  like  that  which  attended  mine,  may  always  follow 
your  falsehoods,  or  those  of  others  ;  but  because  all  lying 
is  contrary  to  the  moral  law  of  God  ;  aud  that  the  liar,  as 
scripture  tells  us,  is  not  only  liable  to  punishment  and  dis- 
grace here,  but  will  be  the  object  of  certain  and  more  aw- 
ful punishment  in  the  world  to  come." 

The   following   tale  illustrates  the  passive  lie   of 

VANITY. 


UNEXPECTED  DISCOVERIES. 

There  are  two  sayings — the  one  derived  from  divine,  the 
other  from  human,  authority — the  truth  of  which  is  con- 
tinually forced  upon  us  by  experience.  They  are  these  : — 
"  A  prophet  is  not  without  honour,  except  in  his  own  coun- 
try;" and  "  No  man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet-de-chambre." 
— "  Familiarity  breeds  contempt,"  is  also  a  proverb  to  the 
same  effect ;  and  they  all  three  bear  upon  the  tendency  in 
our  natures  to  undervalue  the  talents,  and  claims  to  distinc- 
tion, of  those  with  whom  we  are  closely  connected  and  as- 
sociated ;  and  on  our  incapability  to  believe  that  they,  whom 
we  have  always  considered  as  our  equals  only,  or  perhaps 
as  our  inferiors,  can  be  to  the  rest  of  the  world  objects  of 
admiration  and  respect. 


UNEXPECTED    DISCOVERIES.  S3 

N.o  one  wag  more  convinced  of  the  truth  of  these  sayings 
than  Darcy  Pennington,  the  only  child  of  a  pious  and  vir- 
tuous  couple,  who  thought  him  the  best  of  suns,  and  one  of 
the  first  of  geniuses  ;  but,  as  they  were  not  able,to  persuade 
the  rest  of  the  family  of  this  latter  truth,   when  they  died, 
Darcy's  uncle  and  guardian  insisted  on   his  going  into  ;i 
merchant's  counting-house  in  London,  instead  of  being  ed- 
ucated for  one  of  the  learned  professions.      Darcy  had  a 
mind  too  well  disciplined   to   rebel  against  his  guardian's 
authority.     He  therefore  submitted  to  his  allotment  in  si- 
lence ;  resolving  that  his  love   of  letters   and   the  muses 
should  not  interfere  with  his  duties  to  his  employer,  but  lie 
devoted  all  his  leisure  hours  to  literary  pursuits  ;  and,  as 
he  had  real  talents,  he  was  at  length  raised,   from  the  un- 
paid contributor  to  the  poetical  columns  in  a  newspaper,  to 
the  paid  writer  in  a  popular  magazine  ;  while  his  poems, 
signed  Alfred,  became  objects  of  eager  expectation.     Bui 
Darcy's  own  family  and  friends  could  not  have  been  more 
surprised  at  his  growing  celebrity  than  he  himself  was  :  for 
he  was  a  sincere,  humble  christian  ;  and,  having  been  accus- 
tomed to  bow  to  the  opinion  of  those  whom  he  considered 
as  his  superiors    in   iutellect    and  knowledge,    he   could 
scarcely  believe  in  his  own  eminence.      But  it  was  pre- 
cious to  his  heart,  rather  than  to  his  vanity  ;  as  it  enabled 
him  to  indulge  those  benevolent  feelings,  which  his  small 
income  had  hitherto  restrained.     At  length  he  published  a 
duodecimo  volume  of  poems   and   hymns,  still  under   the 
name  of  Alfred,  which  was  highly  praised   in  reviews  and 
journals,  and  a  strong  desire  was  expressed  to  know  who 
the  modest,  promising,  and  pious  writer  was. 

Notwithstanding,  Darcy  could  not  prevail  upon  himself 
to  disclose  his  name.  He  visited  his  native  town  every 
year,  and  in  the  circle  of  his  family  and  friends,  was  still 
considered  only  as  a  good  sort  of  lad,  who  had  been  great- 
ly overrated  by  his  parents — was  just  suited  for  the  situa- 
tion in  which  he  had  been  placed — and  was  very  fortunate 
to  have  been  received  into  partnership  with  the  merchant 
to  whom  he  had  been  clerk.  In  vain  did  Darcy  sometimes 
endeavour  to  hint  that  he  was  an  author  ;  he  remembered 
the  contempt  with  which  his  uncle,  and  relations,  had  read 
one  of  the  earliest  fruits  of  his  muse,  when  exhibitediay  bis 
C 


34  ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    LYING. 

fond  father,  and  the  advice  given  to  bum  such  stuff,  and 
not  turn  the  head  of  a  dull  boy,  by  making  him  fancy  him- 
self a  genius.  Therefore,  recollecting  the  wise  saying  quot- 
ed above,  he  feared  that  the  news  of  his  literary  celebrity 
would  not  be  received  with  pleasure,  and  that  the  affection 
with  which  he  was  now  welcomed  might  suffer  diminution. 
Besides,  thought  he, — and  then  his  heart  rose  in  his  throat, 
with  a  choking  painful  feeling, — those  tender  parents, 
who  would  have  enjoyed .  my  little  fame,  are  cold,  and 
unconscious  now ;  and  the  ears,  to  which  my  praises 
would  have  been  sweet  music,  cannot  hear;  therefore, 
methinks,  I  have  a  mournful  pleasure  in  keeping  on  that 
veil,  the  removal  of  which  cannot  confer  pleasure  on 
them." — Consequently  he  remained  contented  to  be  warm- 
ly welcomed  at  D —  for  talents  of  an  humble  sort  such  as 
his  power  for  mending  toys,  making  kites,  and  rabbits  on 
the  wall;  which  talents  endeared  him  to  all  the  children 
of  his  family  and  friends  ;  and,  through  them,  to  their  par- 
ents. Yet  it  may  be  asked,  was  it  possible  that  a  young 
man,  so  gifted,  could  conceal  his  abilities  from  observa 
tion  1 

Oh,  yes.  Darcy,  to  borrow  Addison's  metaphor  con- 
cerning himself,  though  he  could  draw  a  bill  for  £1000, 
had  never  any  small  change  in  his  pocket.  Like  him  he 
could  write,  but  he  could  not  talk  ;  he  was  discouraged  in  a 
moment;  and  the  slightest  rebuff  made  him  hesitate  to  a 
painful  degree.  He  had,  however  some  flattering  mo- 
ments, even  amidst  his  relations  and  friends  ;  for  he  heard 
them  repeating  his  verses  and  singing  his  songs.  He  had 
also  far  greater  joy  in  hearing  his  hymns  in  places  of  pub- 
lic worship ;  and  then,  too  much  choked  with  grateful 
emotion  to  join  in  the  devotional  chorus  himself,  he  used 
to  feel  his  own  soul  raised  to  heaven  upon  those  wings 
which  he  had  furnished  for  the  souls  of  others.  At  such 
moments  he  longed  to  discover  himself  as  the  author  ;  but 
was  withheld  by  the  fear  that  his  songs  would  cease  to  be 
aiimired,  and  his  hymns  would  lose  their  usefulness,  if  it 
were  known  that  he  had  written  them.  However,  he  re- 
solved to  feel  his  way  ;  and  once,  on  hearing  a  song  of 
his  commended,  he  ventured  to  observe,  "  I  think  I  cau 
writ©  as  good  a  one." — "  You  !"  cried  his  uncle ',  "who* 


UNEXPECTED    DISCOVERIES.  35 

a  conceited  boy!  I  remember  that  you  used  to  scribble  verses 
when  a  child ;  but  I  thought  you  had  been  laughed  out  of 
that  nonesense." — "  My  dear  fellow,  nature  never  meant 
thee  for  a  poet,  believe  me,"  said  one  of  his  cousins  con- 
ceitedly,— a  young  colegian.  "  No,  no ;  like  the  girl  in 
the  drama,  thou  wouldst  make  '  love'  and  'joy'  rhyme,  and 
know  no  better. — "  But  I  have  written,  and  I  can  rhyme," 
replied  Darcy,  colouring  a  little. — "  Indeed  !"  replied  his 
formal  aunt;  "Well,  Mr.  Darcy  Pennington,  it  really 
would  be  very  amusing  to  see  your  erudit  productions  ;  per- 
haps you  will  indulge  u^  some  day." — "  I  will ;  and  then 
you  may  probably  alter  your  opinion."  Soon  after  Darcy 
wrote  an  anonymous  prose  tale  in  one  volume,  interspers- 
ed with  poetry,  which  had  even  a  greater  run  than  his  other 
writings;  and  it  was  attributed  first  to  one  person,  and 
then  to  another;  while  his  publisher  was  excessively  pres- 
sed to  declare  the  name  of  the  author;  but  he  (lid  not 
himself  know  it,  as  he  only  knew  Darcy,  avowedly,  under 
a  feigned  name.  But,  at  length,  Darcy  resolved  to  dis- 
close his  secret,  at  least  to  his  relatives  and  friends  at 
D —  ;  and  just  as  the  second  edition  of  his  tale  was  nearly, 
completed,  he  set  off  for  his  native  place,  taking  with  him 
the  manuscript,  full  of  the  printer's  marks,  to  prove  that  he 
was  the  author  of  it. 

He  had  one  irresistible  motive  for  tints  walking  out 
from  his  incognito,  like  Homer's  deities  from  their  rdoud. 
He  had  failed  in  love  with  his  second  cousin,  Julia  Vane, 
an  heiress,  and  his  uncle's  ward  ;  and  had  become  jealous 
of  himself,  as  he  had,  for  some  months,  wooed  her  in  anony- 
mous poetry,  which  she,  he  found,  attributed  to  a  gentle- 
man in  the  neighbourhood,  whose  name  he  knew  not;  and 
she  had  often  declared  that,  such  was  her  passion  for  poe- 
try, he  who  could  woo  her  in  beautiful  verse  was  alone  likely 
to  win  her  heart- 
On  the  very  day  of  his  arrival,  he  said  in  the  family  cir- 
cle that  he  had  brought  down  a  little  manuscript  of  his 
own,  which  he  wished  to  read  to  them.  Oh  !  the  comical 
grimaces  !  the  suppressed  laughter,  growing  and  swelling,, 
however,  till  it  could  be  restrained  no  longer,  which  wa  3 
the  result  of  this  request !  And  oh  !  the  looks  of  consterr  ja- 
tion  when  Darcy  produced  the  manuscript  from  his  po  cW- 


36  ILLUSTRATIONS   OF    LYING. 

et !  "  Why,  Darcy,"  said  his  uncle,  "  this  is  really  a  word 
and  a  blow  ;  but  you  cannot  read  it  to-night ;  we  are  en- 
gaged."— "  Certainly,  Mr.  Darcy  Pennington,"  said  his 
aunt,  "  if  you  wish  to  read  your  astonishing  productions, 
we  are  bound  in  civility  to  hear  them ;  but  we  are  all  go- 
ing to  Sir  Hugh  Belson's,  and  shall  venture  to  take  you 
with  us,  though  it  is  a  great  favour  and  privilege  to  be  per- 
mitted to  go  on  such  an  occasion  ;  for  a  gentleman  is  staying 
there  who  has  written  such  a  sweet  book  !  It  is  only  just  out, 
yet  it  cannot  be  had;  because  the  first  edition  is  sold,  and 
the  second  not  finished.  So  Sir  Hugh,  for  whom  your  un- 
cle is  exerting  himself  against  the  next  election,  has  been 
so  kind  as  to  invite  us  to  hear  the  author  read  his  own 
work.  This  gentleman  does  not,  indeed,  own  that  he 
wrote  it ;  still  he  does  not  deny  it ;  and  it  is  clear,  by  his 
manner,  that  he  did  write  it,  and  that  he  would  be  very 
sorry  not  to  be  considered  as  the  writer." — "  Very  well, 
then  ;  the  pleasure  of  hearing  another  author  read  his  own 
work  shall  be  delayed,"  replied  Darcy,  smiling.  "  Per- 
haps, when  you  have  heard  this  gentleman's,  you  will  not 
be  so  eager  to  read  yours,  Darcy,"  said  Julia  Vane ;  "  for 
you  used  to  be  a  modest  man."  Darcy  sighed,  looked  sig- 
nificantly, but  remained  silent. 

In  the  evening  they  went  to  Sir  Huglu  Belson's,  where, 
in  the  Captain  Eustace,  who  was  to  delight  the  company, 
Darcy  recognised  the  gentleman  who  had  been  pointed  out 
to  him  as  the  author  of  several  meagre  performances  han- 
ded about  in  manuscript  in  certain  circles;  which  owed 
their  celebrity  to  the  birth  and  fashion  of  the  writer,  and 
to  the  bribery  which  is  always  administered  to  the  self-love 
of  those  who  are  the  select  few  chosen  to  see  and  judge  on 
such  occasions. 

Captaiiv  Eustace  now  prepared  to  read  ;  but  when  he 
named  the  title  of  the  book  which  he  held  in  his  hand, 
Darcy  started  from'  his  seat  with  surprise;  for  it  was  the 
title  of  his  own  work  !  But  there  might  be  two  works  with 
the  same  title  ;  and  he  sat  down  again  ;  but  when  the  reader 
continued,  and  he  could  doubt  no  longer,  he  again  started  up, 
and,  with  stuttering  eagerness,  said,  "  Wh-wh — who,  sir, 
did'  you  say,  wrote  this  book  1" — "  I  have  named  no 
nnmtf.s,  sir,"  replied  Eustace  conceitedly  ;  "the  author  is 


UNEXPECTED  DISCOVERIES       37 

unknown,  and  wishes  to  remain  so." — "  Mr.  Darey  Pen- 
nington," cried  his  aunt,  "  sit  down  and  be  quiet ;"  and 
he  obeyed. — "  Mr.  Pennington,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  affected- 
ly, "  the  violet  must  he  sought,  and  is  discovered  with 
difficulty,  you  know  ;  for  il  shrinks  from  observation,  and 
loves  the  shade."  Darcy  bowed  assent  ;  bat  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  discovered  violet  before  him  with  such  an  equivocal 
expression,  that  Eustace  was  disconcerted;  and  the  more  so, 
when  Darcy,.  who  could  not  but  feel  the  ludicrous  situation 
in  which  he  was  placed,  hid  his  face  in  his  handkerchief, 
and  was  evidently  shaking  with  laughter.  "  Mr.  D:ncy 
Pennington,  I  am  really  ashamed  of  you,"  whispered  his 
aunt;  ancbDarcy  recovered  his  composure.  He  had  now 
two  hours  of  great  enjoyment.  He  heard  that  book  admi- 
rably read  which  he  had  intended  to  read  the  next  day, 
and  knew  that  he  should  read  ill.  He  heard  that  work 
applauded  to  the  skies  as  the  work  of  another,  which 
would,  he  feared,  have  been  faintly  commended,  if  known 
to  be  his;  and  he  saw  the  fine  eyes  of  the  woman  he  loved 
drowned  in  tears,  by  the  power  of  his  own  simple  pathos. 
The  poetry  in  the  book  was  highly  admired  also  ;  and 
when  Eustace  paused  to  take  breath,  Julia  whispered  in 
his  ear,  "  Captain  Eustace  is  the  gentleman  who,  I  have 
every  reason  to  believe,  wrote  some  anonymous  poetry  sent 
me  by  the  post ;  for  Captain  Eustace  pays  me,  as  you  see, 
marked  attention  ;  and  as  he  denies  that  he  wrote  the  ver- 
ses, exactly  as  he  denies  that  he  wrote  the  book  which  he 
is  now  reading,  it  is  very  evident  that  he  wrote  both." — 
"  I  dare  say,"  replied  Darcy,  colouring  with  resentment, 
"  that  he  as  much  wrote  the  one  as  he  wrote  the  other." 
— "  What  do  you  mean.  Darcy  1  There  can  he  no  doubt 
of  the  fact ;  and  I  own  that  I  cannot  be  insensible  to  such 
talent ;  for  poetry  and  poets  are  my  passion,  you  know  ; 
and  in  his  authorship  I  forget  his  plainness.  Do  you  not 
think  that  a  woman  would  be  justified  in  loving  a  mail  who 
writes  so  morally,  so  piously,  and  so  delightfully  V — 
"  Certainly,"  replied  Darcy,  eagerly  grasping  her"  hand, 
"  provided  his  conduct  be  in  unison  with  his  writings; 
and  I  advise  you  to  give  the  writer  in  question  your  whole 
heart." 

After  the  reading  was  over,  the  delighted  audiend) 


SB  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

crowded  round  the  reader,  whose  manner  of  receiving  their 
thanks  was  such,  as  to  make  every  one  but  Darcy  believe 
the  work  was  his  own  ;  and  never  was  the  passive  lie 
OF  vanity  more  completely  exhibited ;  while  Darcy  in- 
toxicated, as  it  were,  by  the  feelings  of  gratified  author- 
ship, and  the  hopes  excited  by  Julia's  wot  (Is,  thanked  him 
again  and  again  for  the  admirable  manner  in  which  he  had 
read  the  book  ;  declaring  ,  with  great  earnestness,  that  he 
could  not  have  done  it  such  justice  himself;  adding,  that 
this  evening  was  the  happiest  of  his  life. 

"Mr.  Darcy  Pennington,  what  ails  you  V  cried  his 
aunt ;  "  you  really  are  not  like  yourself  !" — "  Hold  your 
tongue,  Darcy,"  said  his  uncle,  drawing  him  on  one  side  ; 
"  do  not  be  such  a  forward  puppy  ; — who  ever  questioned, 
or  cared,  whether  you  could  have  done  it  justice  or  not  1 
But  here  is  the  carriage ;  and  I  am  glad  you  have  no  lon- 
ger an  opportunity  of  thus  exposing  yourself  by  your 
literary  and  critical  raptures,  which  sits  as  ill  upon  you  as 
the  caressings  of  the  ass  in  the  fable  did  on  him,  when  he 
pretended  to  compete  with  the  lapdog  in  fondling  his  mas- 
ter." 

During  the  drive  home,  Darcy  did  not  speak  a  word  ; 
not  only  because  he  was  afraid  of  his  severe  uncle  and 
aunt,  but,  because  he  was  meditating  how  he  should  make 
that  discovery,  on  the  success  of  which,  hung  his  dearest 
hopes-  He  was  also  communing  with  his  own  heart,  in 
order  to  bring  it  back  to  that  safe  humility  out  of  which  it 
had  been  led  by  the  flattering,  and  unexpected,  events  of 
the  evening.  "  Well,"  said  he,  while  they  drew  rountf 
the  fire,  "  as  it  is  not  late,  suppose  I  read  my  work  to  you 
now.  I  assure  you  that  it  is.  quite  as  good  as  that  which 
you  have  heard." — "  Mr.  Darcy  Pennington,  you  really 
quite  alarm  me,"  cried  his  aunt.  "  Why  so  V — "  Be- 
cause I  fear  that  you  are  a  little  delirious  .'" — On  which 
Darcy  nearly  laughed  himself  into  convulsions.  "  Let  me 
feel  your  pulse,  Darcy,"  said  his  uncle  very  gravely, — 
"  too  quick. — I  shall  send  for  advice,  if  you  are  not  bet- 
ter to-morrow  ;  you  look  so  flushed,  and  your  eyes  are  so 
bright !" — "  My  dear  uncle,"  repiled  Darcy,  "  I  shall  be 
quite  well  if  you  will  but  hear  my  manuscript  before  we 
go  to  bed-"     T',ey  a'l  looked  at  each  other  with  increased 


UNEXPECTED    DISCOVERIES.  39 

alarm  ;  and  Julia,  in  order  to  please  liiin,  (for  she  really 
loved  him)  said,  "  Well,  Dairy,  if  you  insist  upon  it  ;" — 
but  interrupting  her,  he  suddenly  started  up,  and  exclaim- 
ed, "  No;  on  second  thoughts,  I  will  not  read  it  till  Captain 
Eustace  and  Sir  Hugh  and  his  family  can  be  present  ;  and 
they  will  he  here  the  day  after  to-morrow." — "  What  ! 
read  your  nonsense  to  them  !"  cried  his  uncle,  "  Poor  fel- 
low !  poor  fellow  !"  But  Darcy  was  gone  !  he  had  caught 
Julia's  hair  I  to  his  lips,  and  quitted  the  room,  leaving  his 
relations  to  wonder,  to  (ear,  and  to  pity.  But  as  Darcy 
was  quite  composed  the  next  day,  they  all  agreed  that  he 
must  have  drunk  more  wine  than  he  or  they  had  been  aware 
of  the  preceding  evening.  But  though  Darcy  was  willing 
to  wait  the  ensuing  evening,  before  he  discovered  his  se- 
cret to  the  rest  of  the  familv,  he  could  not  be  easy  till  he 
had  disclosed  it  to  Julia  ;  for  he  was  mortified  to  lind  that 
the  pious,  judicious  Julia  Vane  had,  for  one  moment  be- 
lieved that  a  mere  man  of  the  world,  like  Captain  Eustace, 
could  have  written  such  versos  as  lie  had  anonymously  ad- 
dressed toher;  verses  breathing  the  very  quintessence  of 
mire  love  ;  and  full  of  anxious  interest  not  only  for  her 
temporal,  but  her  eternal  welfare.  "  Xo,  no,"  said  ho  ; 
'*  she  shall  not  remain  in  such  a  degrading  error  one  mo- 
ment longer  :"  and  having  requested  a  private  interview 
with  her,  he  disclosed  the  truth. — "  What  !  are  you — can 
you  he — did  you  write  all  !"  she  exclaimed  in  broken  ac- 
cents ;  while  Darey  gently  reproached  her  fur  having  be- 
lieved that  a  mere  worldly  admirer  could  so  have  written  ; 
however,  she  justified  hersell  by  declaring  how  impossible 
it  was  to  suspect  that  a  man  of  honour,  as  Eustace  seem- 
ed, could  he  so  base  as  to  assume  a  merit  which  was  net 
his  own.  Here  she  paused,  turning  away  from  Darcy's  pen- 
etrating look,  covered  with  conscious  blushes,  ashamed 
that  he  should  see  how  pleased  she  was.  But  she  readily 
acknowledged  her  sorrow  at  having  been  betrayed,  by  the 
unworthy  artifice  of  Eustace,  into  encouraging  his  atten- 
tions, and  was  eager  to  concert  with  Darcy  the  best  plan 
for  revealing  the  surprising  secret. 

The  evening,  so  eagerly  anticipated  by  Darcy  and  Julia, 
now  arrived ;  and  great  was  the  consternation  of  all  the 
rest  of  the  family,  when  Darcy  took  a    manuscript  out  of 


40  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYING. 

his  pocket,  and  began  to  open  it.  "  The  fellow  is  certain* 
ly  possessed,"  thought  his  uncle.  "  Mr.  Darcy  Penning- 
ton,"  whispered  his  aunt,  "  I  shall  faint  if  you  persist  in 
exposing  yourself!" — "  Darcy,  I  will  shut  you  up  if  you 

Croceed,"  whispered  his  uncle;  ts  for  you  must  positively 
e  mad." — "  Let  him  go  on,  dear  uncle,"  said  Julia  ;  "  I 
am  sure  you  will  be  delighted,  or  ought  to  be  so  :"  and, 
spite  of  his  uncle's  threats  and  whispers,  he  addressed  Cap- 
tain  Eustace  thus  : — ■ 

"  Allow  me,  Sir,  io  thank  you  again  for  the  more  than 
histice  which  you  did  my  humble  performance  the  othei 
evening.  Till  I  heard  you  read  it,  I  was  unconscious  that 
it  had  so  much  merit ;  and  I  again  thank  you  for  the  high 
est  gratification  which,  as  an  author,  I  ever  received." 
New  terror  seized  every  one  of  his  family  who  heard  him, 
except  Julia  ;  while  wonder  filled  Sir  Hugh  and  the  rest 
of  his  party — Eustace  excepted  :  he  knew  that  he  was  not 
the  author  of  the  work  ;  therefore  he  could  not  disj  ute  the 
fact  that  the  real  author  now  stood  before  him  ;  and  blush- 
es of  detected  falsehood  covered  his  check;  but,  ere  he 
could  falter  out  a  reply,  Darcy 's  uncle  and  sons  seized  him 
by  the  arm,  and  insisted  on  speaking  with  him  i:i  another 
room.  Darcy,  laughing  violently,  endeavoured  to  shake 
them  off,  but  in  vain.  "  Let  him  alone,"  said  Julia,  smil- 
ing, and  coming  forward.  "  Darey's  '  eye  may  be  in  a 
fine  frenzy  rolling,'  as  you  have  all  of  you  owned  him  to  be 
a  poet ;  but  othei  frenzy  than  that  of  a  poet  he  has  not,  I 
assure  you — so  pray  set  him  at  liberty  ;  /will  be  answera- 
ble for  his  sanity." — "  What  does  all  this  mean  !"  said 
his  uncle,  as  he  and  his  sons  unwillingly  obeyed.  "  It 
means,"  said  Darcy,  "  that  I  hope  not  to  quit  this  room 
till  I  have  had  the  delight  of  hearing  these  yet  unpublished 
poems  of  mine  read  by  Captain  Eustace.  Look,  Sir, 
continued  he,  "  here  is  a  signature  well  known  no  doubt, 
to  yon  ;  that  of  Alfred.'''' — "  Are  you  indeed  Alfred,  the 
celebrated  Alfred  1"  faltered  out  Eustace.  "  I  believe  so, 
he  replied  with  a  smile  !  though  on  some  occasions,  yo 
know,  it  is  difficult  to  prove  one's  personal  identity."- - 
True,"  answered  Eustace,  turning  over  the  manuscript,  to 
hide  his  confusion.  "  And  I,  Captain  Eustace,"  said 
Julia,  "  have  had  the  great  satisfaction  of  discovering  that 


UNEXPECTED    DISCOVERIES.  41 

my  unknown  poetical  correspun  lent  is  my  long-cherished 
friend  and  cousin,  Darcy  Pennington.  Think  how  satis- 
factory  this  discovery  has  been  to  mc  P* — ««  Certainly, 
Madam,"  he  replied,  turning  pale  with  emotion;  for  ha 
nut  only  saw  bis  Passive  Lies  of  Vanity  detected,  though 
Darcy  had  too  much  Christian  forbearance  even  to  insinu- 
ate that  be  intended  to  appropriate  to  himself  the  fame  of 
another,  but  lie  also  saw,  in  spile  of  the  kindness  with 
which  she  addressed  him,  that  he  had  lost  Julia,  and  that 
Darcy  had  probably  gained  her.  "  What  is  all  this  1" 
cried  Sir  Hugh  at  last,  who  with  the  uncle  and  aunt  had 
listened  in  silent  wonder.  "  Why,  Eustace,  I  thought  you 
owned  that  '?"--"  That  I  deny  ;  I  owned  nothing  ;"  he 
eagerly  replied.  "  You  insisted  on  it,  nay,  every  body 
insisted,  that  I  was  the  author  of  the  beautiful  work 
which  I  read,  and  of  other  things  ;  and  if  Mr.  Pennington 
asserts  that  he  is  the  author,  I  give  him  joy  of  his  genius 
and  his  fame." — 'What  do  I  hear!"  cried  the  aunt; 
*'  Mr.  Darcy  Pennington  a  genius,  and  famous,  and  I  not 
suspect  it  !" — "  Impossible  !"  cried  his  uncle,  pettishly; 
"  that  dull  fellow  turn  out  a  wit  !  It  cannot  be.  What  ! 
are  you  Alfred,  boyl  I  cannot  credit  it;  for  if  so,  I  have 
been  dull  indeed  ;"  while  his  sons  seemed  to  feel  as  much 
mortification  as  surprise.  "  My  dear  uncle,"  said  Darcy, 
"  I  am  now  a  professed  author.  I  wrote  the  work  which 
you  heard  last  night.  Here  it  is  in  the  manuscript,  as  re- 
turned by  the  printer  ;  and  here  is  the  last  proof  of  the  sec- 
ond edition,  which  I  received  at  the  post-office  just  now, 
directed  to  A.  B.  ;  which  is,  I  think,  proof  positive  that 
I  may  be  Alfred  also,  who,  by  your  certainly  impartial 
praises,  is  for  this  evening,  at  least,  in  his  own  eyes  elevat- 
ed into  Alfred  the  Great." 


42  ILLUSTRATION    OP   LYING. 

CHAPTER  III. 

ON  THE  LIES  OF  FLATTERY. 

The  Lies  of  Flattery  are  next  on  my  list. 

These  lies  are,  generally  speaking,  not  only  unprincipled, 
but  offensive  ;  and  though  they  are  usually  told  to  conciliate 
good  will,  the  flatterer  often  fails  in  his  attempt ;  for  his 
intended  dupe  frequently  sees  through  his  art,  .and  he  ex- 
cites indignation  where  he  meant  to  obtain  regard.  Those 
who  know  aught  of  human  nature  as  it  really  is,  and  do 
not  throw  the  radiance  of  their  own  christian  benevolence 
over  it,  must  be  well  aware  that  few  persons  hear  with 
complacency  the  praises  of  others,  even  where  the  ft  is  no 
competition  between  the  parties  praised  and  themselves. 
Therefore,  the  objects  of  excessive  flattery  are  painfully 
conscious  that  the.  praises  bestowed  on  them,  in  the  hear- 
ing of  their  acquaintances,  will  not  only  provoke  those  au- 
ditors to  undervalue  their  pretensions,  but  to  accuse  tliem 
of  believing  in  and  enjoying  the  gross  flattery  offered  to 
them.  There  are  no  persons,  in  my  opinion,  with  whom 
it  is  so  difficult  to  keep  up  "  the  relations  of  peace  and 
ami'y,"  as  flatterers  by  system  and  habit.  Those  persons, 
I  mean,  who  deal  out  their  flatteries  on  the  same  principle 
as  boys  throw  a  handful  of  burs.  However  unskilfully  the 
burs  are  thrown,  the  chances  are  that  some  will  stick  ;  and 
flatterers  expect  that  some  of  their  compliments  will  dwell 
with,  and  impose  on,  their  intended  dupe.  Perhaps  their 
calculation  is  not,  generally  considered,  an  erroneous  one ; 
but  if  there  be  any  of  their  fellow-creatures  with  whom 
the  sensitive  and  the  discerning  may  be  permitted  to  loathe 
association,  it  is  with  those  who  presume  to  address  them 
in  the  language  of  compliment,  too  violent  and  unappropri- 
ate  to  deceive  even  for  a  moment ;  while  diey  discover  on 
their  lips  the  flickering  sneer  of  contempt  contending  with 
its  treacherous  smile,  and  mark  their  wily  eye  looking 
round  in  search  of  some  responsive  one,  to  which  it  can 


ON  THE  LIES  OF  FLATTERY.  43 

communicate  their  sense  of  tlie  ottered  falsehood,  and  then- 
mean  exultation  over  their  imagined  dupe.  The  lies  of 
benevolence,  even  when  they  can  he  resolved  into  lies  of 
flattery,  may  he  denominated  amiable  lies;  but  the  lie  of 
flattery  is  usually  uttered  by  the  bad-hearted  and  censo- 
rious;  therefore"  to  the  term  lie  of  flattery 
might  be  added  an  alias; — alias,  the  lie  of  malevo- 
lence. 

Coarse  and  indiscriminating  flatterers  lay  it  down  as  a 
rule,  that  they  are  to  flatter  all  persons  on  the  qualities 
which  they  have  not.  Hence,  they  flatter  the  plain  on 
their  beauty  ;  the  weak  on  their  intellect ;  the  dull,  on 
their  wit;  believing,  in  the  sarcastic  narrowness  of  their 
conceptions,  that  no  one  possesses  any  self-knowledge  ;  but 
that  every  one  implicitly  believes  the  truth  of  the  eulogy 
bestowed.  This  erroneous  view,  taken  by  the  flatterer 
of  the  peuctration  of  the  flattered,  is  common  only  in  those 
who  have  more  cunning  than  intellect ;  more  shrewdness 
than  penetration  ;  and  whose  knowledge  of  the  weakness 
of  our  nature  has  been  gathered,  not  from  deep  study  of 
the  human  heart,  but  from  the  depravity  of  their  own,  or 
from  the  pages  of  ancient  and  modern  satirists  ; — those 
who  have  a  mean,  malignant  pleasure,  in  believing  in  the 
absence  of  all  moral  truth  amongst  their  usual  associates ; 
and  are  glad  to  be  able  to  comfort  themselves  for  their  own 
conscious  dereliction  from  a  high  moral  standard,  by  the 
conviction  that  they  are,  at  least,  as  good  as  their  neigh- 
bours. Yes;  my  experience  tells  me  that  the  above 
mentioned  rule  of  flattery  is  acted  upon  only  by  the  half- 
enlightened,  who   take  for   superiority  of  intellect  thai 


which,  in  fools  supplies, 

And  amply  too,  the  place  of  being  wise. 

But  the  deep  observer  of  human  nature  knows  that 
where  there  is  real  intellect,  there  are  discernment  and 
self-knowledge  also ;  and  that  the  really  intelligent  are 
aware  to  how  much  praise  and  admiration  they  are  enti- 
tled, be  it  encomium  on  their  personal,  or  mental,  qualifi- 
cations. 


44  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYING. 

I  beg  to  give  one  illustration  of  the  Lie  of  Flattery,  in 
the  following  tale,  of  which  the  offending  heroine  is  a  fe- 
male ;  though,  as  men  are  the  licensed  flatterers  of  wo- 
men, I  needed  not  to  have  feared  the  imputation  of  want 
of  candour,  had  I  taken  my  example  from  one  of  the  wiser 
sex. 


THE  TURBAN  j 


THE  LIE  OF  FLATTERY. 

Some  persons  are  such  determined  flatterers  both  by 
nature  and  habit,  that  they  flatter  unconsciously,  and  al- 
most involuntarily.  Such  a  flatterer  was  Jemima  Aldred  ; 
but,  as  the  narrowness  of  her  fortune  made  her  unable  to 
purchase  the  luxuries  of  life  in  which  she  most  delighted, 
she  was  also  a  conscious  and  voluntary  flatterer  whenever 
she  was  with  those  who  had  it  in  their  power  to  indulge 
her  favourite  inclinations. 

There  was  one  distinguished  woman  in  the  circle  of  her 
acquaintance,  whose  favour  she  was  particularly  desirous 
of  gaining,  and  who  was  therefore  the  constant  object  of 
her  flatteries.  This  lady,  who  was  rendered,  by  her  situ- 
ation, her  talents,  and  her  virtues,  an  object  of  earthly 
worship  to  many  of  her  associates,  had  a  good-natured  in- 
dolence about  her,  which  made  her  receive  the  incense  of- 
fered, as  if  she  believed  in  its  sincerity.  But  the  flattery 
of  young  Jemima  was  so  gross,  and  so  indiscriminate,  that 
it  sometimes  converted  the  usual  gentleness  of  Lady  Dela- 
val's  nature  into  gall ;  and  she  felt  indignant  at  being  sup- 
posed capable  of  relishing  adulation  so  excessive,  and  de- 
votion so  servile.    But,  as  she  was  full  of  christian  benev- 


THE   TURBAN.  45 

},  and,  consequently,  her  first  desire  was  to  do  good, 
she  allowed  pity  for  the  poor  girl's  ignorance  to  conquer 
resentment,  and  laid  a  plan,  in  order  to  correct  and  amend 
her,  impossible,  by  salutary  mortification. 

Accordingly,  she  invited  Jemima,  and  some  other  young 
ladies,  to  spend  a  whole  day  with  her  at  her  house  in  the 
country.  But,  as  the  truly  benevolent  are  always  reluc- 
tant to  afflict  any  one,  even  though  it  be  to  imjirove,  Lady 
Delaval  would  have  shrunk  from  the  task  which  she  had 
imposed  on  herself,  had  not  Jemima  excited  her  into  per- 
severance, by  falling  repeatedly  and  grossly  into  her  beset- 
ting sin  during  the  course  of  the  day.  For  instance:  La-, 
dy  Delaval,  who  usually  left  the  clwice  of  her  ribbands  to 
her  milliner,  as  she  was  not  studious  of  her  personal  appear- 
ance, wore  colours  at  breakfast  that  morning  which  she 
thought  ill-suited  both  to  her  years  and  complexion  ;  and 
having  asked  her  guests  how  they  liked  her  scarf  and  rib- 
bands, they  pronounced  them  to  be  beautiful.  "  But,  sure- 
ly, they  do  not  become  my  olive,  ill-looking  skin  !" — 
"  They  are  certainly  not  becoming,"  was  the  ingenuous  re- 
ply of  all  but  Jemima  Aldred,  who  persisted  in  asserting 
that  the  colour  was  as  becoming  as  it  was  brilliant ;  ad- 
ding, "  I  do  not  know  what  dear  Lady  Delaval  means  by 
undervaluing  her  own  clear  complexion." — "  The  less 
that  is  said  about  that  the  better,  I  believe,"  she  dryly  re- 
plied, not  trying  to  conceal  the  sarcastic  smile  which  play- 
ed upon  her  lip,  and  feeling  strengthened,  by  this  new  in- 
stance of  Jemima's  duplicity,  to  go  on  with  her  design  , 
but  Jemima  thought  she  haiLendeared  herself  to  her  by  flat- 
tering her  personal  vanity ;  and,  while  her  companions 
frowned  reproach  fur  her  insincerity ,  she  wished  for  an 
opportunity  of  reproving  their  rudeness.  After  tea,  Lady 
Delaval  desired  her  maid  to  bring  her  down  the  foundation 
for  a  ti'rban,  which  she  was  going  to  pin  up,  and  some 
other  finery  prepared  for  the  same  purpose  ;  and  in  a  short 
time  the  most  splendid  materials  for  millinery  shone  upon 
the  table.  When  she  began  her  task,  her  other  guests  Je- 
mima excepted,  worked  also,  but  she  was  sufficiently  em- 
ployed, she  said,  in  watching  the  creative  and  tasteful  fin- 
gers of  her  friend.  At  first  Lady  Delaval  made  the  turban 
of  silver  tissue  ;  and  Jemima  was  in  ecstasies;  but  the  next 


48  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

moment  she  declared  that  covering  to  be  too  simple  ;  and 
Jemima  thought  so  too  ; — while  she  was  in  equal  ecstasies 
at  the  effect  of  a  gaudy  many-coloured  gauze  which  replac- 
ed its  modest  costliness.  But  still  her  young  companions 
openly  preferred  the  silver  covering,  declaring  that  the  gay 
one  could  only  be  tolerated  if  nothing -else  of  showy  orna- 
ment were  suj>eradded.  They  gave,  however,  their  opin- 
ion in  vain.  Coloured  stones,  a  gold  band,  and  a  green 
spun-glass  feather,  were  all  in  their  turn  heaped  upon  this 
showy  head-dress,  while  Jemima  exulted  over  every  fresh 
addition,  and  admired  it  as  a  new  proof  of  Lady  Delaval's 
taste.  "  Now,  then,  it  is  completed,"  cried  Lady  Dela- 
val ;  "  but  no  ;  suppose  I  add  a  scarlet  feather  to  the 
green  one  ;  Oh  !  that  would  be  superb  ;"  and  having  giv- 
en this  desirable  finish  to  her  performance,  Jemima  declar- 
ed it  to  be  perfect ;  but  the  rest  of  the  company  were  too 
honest  to  commend  it.  Lady  Delaval  then  put  it  on  her 
head  ;  and  it  was  as  unbecoming  as  it  was  ugly  :  but  Je- 
mima exclaimed  that  her  dear  friend  had  never  worn  any 
tiling  before  in  which  she  looked  so  well,  adding,  "But 
then  she  looks  well  in  every  thing.  However,  that  love- 
ly turban  would  become  any  one." — "  Try  how  it  would 
fit  you  !"  said  Lady  Delaval,  putting  it  on  her  head.  Je- 
mima looked  in  a  glass,  and  saw  Chat  to  her  short,  small 
person,  little  face,  and  little  turned-up  nose,  such  an  enor- 
mous mass  of  finery  was  the  destruction  of  all  comeliness ; 
but,  while  the  by-standers  laughed  immoderately  at  her 
appearance,  Jemima  was  loud  in  her  admiration,  and  vol- 
unteered a  wish  to  wear  it  at  some  public  place — "  for  I 
think,  I  do  look  so  well  in  it !"  cried  Jemima.  "  If  so,'* 
said  her  hostess,  "  you,  young  ladies,  on  this  occasion, 
have  neither  taste,  nor  eyes;"  while  Jemima  danced  about 
the  room,  exulting  in  her  heavy  head-dress,  in  the  triumph 
of  her  falsehood,  and  in  the  supposed  superior  ascendancy 
it  had  gained  her  over  her  hostess  above  that  of  her  more 
sincere  companions.  Nor,  when  Lady  Delaval  expressed 
her  fear  that  the  weight  might  be  painful,  would  she  allow 
it  to  be  removed ;  but  she  declared  that  she  liked  her  bur- 
den. At  parting,  Lady  Delaval,  in  a  tone  of  great  signifi- 
cance, told  her  that  she  should  hear  from  her  the  next 
day.    The  next  morning  Jemima  often  dwelt  on  these 


THE    TURBAN. 


47 


marked  words,  impatient  for  an  explanation  of  them  ;  and 
between  twelve  and  one  o'clock  a  servant  of  Lady  Delaval's 
brought  ;i  letter  and  a  bandbox. 

The  letter  was  first  opened  ;  and  was  as  follows  : 

"  Dear  Jemima, 

"  As  I  know  that  you  have  long  wished  to  visit  my  niece 
Lady  Ormsby,  and  also  attend  the  astronomical  lecture  on 
the  grand  transparent  orrery,  which  is  to  be  given  at  the 
public  rooms  this  evening,  for  the  benefit  of  the  infirmsefy; 
though  your  praise-worthy  prudence  prevented  you  from 
subscribing  to  it,  I  have  great  pleasure  in  enclosing  you  a 
ticket  for  the  lecture,  and  in  informing  you  that  I  will  call 
and  take  you  to  dinner  at  Lady  Ormsby's  at  four  /clock, 
whence  you  and  I,  and  the  rest  of  the  party,    (which  will 

be  a  splendid  one)  shall  adjourn  to  the  lecture " 

"  How  kind  !  how  very  kind  !"  exclaimed  Jemima;  and* 
in  her  heart,  imputing  these  favours  to  her  recent  flatteries ; 
and  reading  no  farther,  she  ran  to  her  mother's  apartment 
to  declare  the  joyful  news."  "Oh,  mamma!"  exclaim- 
ed she,  "  how  fortunate  it  was  that  I  made  up  my  dyed 
gauze  when  I  did  !  and  I  can  wear  natural  flowers  in  my 
hair  ;  and  they  are  so  becoming,  as  well  as  cheap."  She  then 
returned  to  her  own  room,  to  finish  the  letter  and  explore  the 
contents  of  the  box.  But  what  was  her  consternation  on 
reading  the  following  words  :...."  But  I  shall 
take  you  to  the  dinner,  and  I  give  you  a  ticket  for  the  lec- 
ture, only  on  this  express  condition, — that  you  wear  the 
accompanying  turban,  which  was  decorated  according  to 
your  taste  and  judgment,  and  in  which  you  were  conscious 
of  looking  so  well  ! — Every  additional  ornament  was  be- 
stowed to  please  you  ;  and  as  I  know  that  your  wish  will 
be  not  to  deprive  me  of  a  head-dress  in  which  yourjpartial 
eyes  thought  that  I  looked  so  charmingly,  I  positively  as- 
sure you  that  no  consideration  shall  ever  induce  me  to 
wear  it ;  and  that  I  expect  you  to  meet  my  summons,  ar- 
rayed in  your  youthful  loveliness  and  my  turban." 

Jemima  set  in  a  sort  of  stupor  after  perusing  this  epistle ; 
and  when  she  started  from  it,  it  was  to  carry  the  letter  and 
turban  to  her  mother*    "  Read  that !    and  look  at  that  r" 


48  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

she  exclaimed,  pointing  to  the  turban.  "  Why,  to  be  sure, 
Jemima,  Lady  Delaval  must  be  making  game  of  you,"  she 
replied.  "  What  could  produce  such  an  absurd  requisi- 
tion J"  When  called  upon  to  answer  this  question,  Jemi- 
ma blushed  ;  and,  for  the  first  time,  feeling  some  compunc- 
tious visitings  of  conscience,  she  almost  hesitated  to  own 
that  the  annoying  conditions  were  the  consequence  of  her 
flatteries.  Still,  to  comply  with  them  was  impossible;  and 
to  go  to  the  dinner  and  lecture  without  them,  and  thereby 
perhaps  affront  Lady  Delaval,  was  impossible  also. — 
"  What  !  expect  me  to  hide  my  pretty  hair  under  that  pre- 
posterous mountain  1  Never,  never  !"  Vainly,  now,  did 
she  try  to  admire  it;  and  she  felt  its  weight  insupportable. 
"  To  be  sure,"  said  she  to  herself,  "  Captain  Leslie  and 
George  Vaux  will  dine  at  Lady  Ormsby's,  and  go  to  the 
lecture ;  but  then  they  will  not  bear  to  look  at  me  in  this 
frightful  head-dress,  and  will  so  quiz  me;  and  I  am  sure 
they  will  think  me  too  great  a  quiz  to  sit  by  !  No,  no ; 
much  as  I  wish  to  go,  and  I  do  so  very  much  wish  it,  I 
cannot  go  on  these  cruel  conditions." — "  But  what  excuse 
can  you  make  to  Lady  Delaval  1" — "  I  must  tell  her  that 
I  have  a  bad  toothach,  and  cannot  go  ;  and  I  will  write 
her  a  note  to  say  so  ;  and  at  the  same  time  return  (he  ug- 
ly turban."  She  did  so; — but  when  she  saw  Lady  Dela- 
val pass  to  the  fine  dinner,  and  heard  the  carriages  at  night 
going  to  the  crowded  lecture,  she  shed  tears  of  bitterness 
and  regret,  and  lamented  that  she  had  not  dared  to  go 
without  the  conditional  and  detestable  turban.  The  next 
day  she  saw  Lady  Delaval's  carriage  drive  up  to  the  dour, 
and  also  saw  the  servant  take  a  bandbox  out.  "  Oh  dear, 
mamma,"  cried  Jemima,  "  I  protest  that  ridiculous  old 
woman  has  brought  her  ugly  turban  back  again  !"  and  it 
was  with  a  forced  smile  of  welcome  that  she  greeted  Lady 
Delaval. — That  lady  entered  the  room  with  a  graver  and 
more  dignified  mien  than  usual ;  for  she  came  to  reprove, 
and,  she  hoped,  amend  an  offender  against  those  principles 
of  truth  which  she  honoured,  and  to  which  she  uniformly 
acted  up.  Just  before  Lady  Delaval  appeared,  Jemima, 
recollected  that  the  was  to  have  the  toothach ;  therefore  she 
tied  up  her  face,  adding  a  practical  lie  to  the  many  al- 
readj<*told ;—  for  one  lie  is  sure  to  make  many.     "  1  was 


THE    TURBAN.  49 

sorry  to  find  that  you  were  not  able  tu  accompany   me  to 
the  dinner  and   lecture,''   said  she;    "and  were  "kept  at 
home  by  the  toothach.      Was  that  your  only  reason  for 
staying  at  home  1"  "  Certainly,  ma  lain  ;  can  you  doubt 
it!"-    "  Yes;  for  I  have  strong  suspicion   that  the  tooth- 
ach is  a  pretence",  not  a  reality." — u  This  from  you,  Lady 
Delaval  !   iny  once  kind  frien  1." — "  Jemima,  I  am   come 
to  prove  myself  a  far  kinder  friend  than  ever  I  did  before. 
I  am  glad  to  find  you  alone  ;    because   I  should  not  have 
liked  to  reprove  a  child  before  her  mother."     Lady  Dela- 
val then  reproached  her  astonished  auditor  with  the  mean 
habit  of  flattery,  in  which  she   was  so  apt  to  indulge;  as- 
suring her  that  she  had  never  been  for   one   moment  her 
dupe,  and  had  insisted  on  her  wearing  the  turban,  in   or- 
der to  punish  her  despicable  duplicity.      "  Had  you  not 
acted  thus,"  continued  Lady  Delaval,   "  I  meant  to  have 
taken  you  to  the  dinner  and  lecture,  without  conditions  ;  but 
I  wished  to  inflict  on  you  a  salutary  punishment,   in  hopes 
of  convincing  you  that  there  are  no  qualities  s o  safe,  or  so 
pleasing  as  truth  and  ingenuousness     I  saw  you  cast  an 
alarmed  look  at  the  hat-box,"  she  aaded,  in  a  gayer  tone  ; 
but  fear  not;  the  turban  is  no  more  ;  and,  in   its  stead,  I 
have  taken  the  liberty  of  bringing  you  a  Leghorn  bonnet  ; 
and  should  you,  while  you  wear  it,  feel  any  desire  to  flat- 
ter, in  your  usual  degrading  manner,  may   it   remind  you 
of  this  conversation,  and  its  cause, — and  make  your  pre- 
sent mortification  the  means  of  your  future  good."     At  this 
moment  Jemima's  mother  entered  the  room,  exclaiming  : 
"  Oh !  Lady  Delaval !  I  am  glad  you  are  come  !  my  poor 
child's  toothach   is  so  bad  !    and  how  unfortunate  that" 
.     .     .     .     Lady  Delaval  cast  on  the  mistaken  mother  a 
look  of  severe  reproof,  and  on  the   daughter  one  of  pity 
and  unavailing  regret;  for  she  felt  that,  for  the  child  who  Is 
hourly  exposed  to   the  contagion  of  an  unprincipled   par- 
ent's example,  there  can  be  little  chance  of  amendment ; 
and  she  hastened  to  her  carriage,  convinced  that  for  the 
poor  Jemima  Aldred  her  labours  of  christian  duty  had  been 
exerted  in  vain.     She  would  have  soon  found  how  just  her 
conviction  was,  had  she  heard  die  dialogue  between  the 
mother  and  daughter,  as  soon  as  she  drove  off".     Jemima 
dried  up  her  hypocritical  tears,  and  exclaimed,  "  A  cross, 
D 


50  ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    LYING. 

methodistical  creature  !  I  am  glad  she  is  gone  !" — n  What 
do  you  mean,  child  1  and  what  is  all  this  about  1"  Jemi- 
ma having  told  her,  she  exclaimed,  "  Why  the  woman  is 
mad  !  What  !  object  to  a  little  harmless  flattery  !  and 
call  that  lying,  indeed  !  Nonsense  !  it  is  all  a  pretence. 
She  hate  flattery  !  no,  indeed  ;  if  you  were  to  tell  her  the 
truth,  she  would  hate  you  like  poison." — "  Very  likely  ; 
but  see,  mamma,  what  she  has  given  me.  What  a  beau- 
tiful bonnet  !  But  she  owed  it  to  me,  for  the  trick  she 
played  me,  and  for  her  preaching." — "  Well,  child," 
answered  her  mother,  "  let  her  preach  to  you  every 
day,  and  welcome,  if  she  comes,  as  to-day,  full-handed." 
Such  was  the  effect  of  Lady  Delaval's  kind  efforts,  on  a 
mother  so  teaching,  and  a  daughter  so  taught  ;  for  indeli- 
ble indeed  are  those  habits  of  falsehood  and  disingennous- 
ness  which  children  acquire,  whose  parants  do  not  make  a 
stict  adherence  to  truth  the  basis  of  their  children's  edu- 
cation ;  and  punish  all  deviation  from  it  with  salutary  rig- 
our. But,  whatever  be  the  excellences  or  the  errors  of 
parents  or  preceptors,  there  is  one  necessary  thing  for 
them  to  remember,  or  their  excellences  will  be  useless,  and 
their  faults  irremediable  ;  namely,  that  they  are  not  to  form 
their  children  for  the  present  world  alone; — they  are  to 
educate  them  not  merely  as  the  children  of  time,  but  as  the 
heirs  of  eternity. 


CHAPTER  IV 


LIES  OF  FEAR. 


I  ONCE  believed  that  the  lie  of  fear  was  confined  to  the 
low  and  uneducated  of  both  sexes,  and  to  children  ;  but 
further  reflection  and  observation  have  convinced  me  that 
this  is  by  no  means  the  case  j  that,  as  this  lie  spriugs 


LIES    OF   FEAR.  51 

from  the  want  of  moral  courage,  and  as  this  defect  is  by 
no  means  confined  to  any  class  or  age,  the  result  of  it,  that 
feai  of  man  which  prompts  to  the  !ie  of  fear,  mast  be  uni- 
versal also  ;  though  the  nature  of  the  dread  may  be  vari- 
ous, and  of  different  degrees  of  strength.  For  instance;  a 
child  or  a  servant  (of  course  I  speak  of  ill-educated  chil- 
dren) breaks  a  toy  or  a  glass,  and  denies  having  done  so. 
Acquaintances  forget  to  execute  commissions  intrusted  to 
them ;  and  either  say  that  they  are  executed,  when  they 
are  not,  or  make  some  false  excuses  for  an  omission 
•which  was  the  result  of  forgetfulness  only.  No  persons 
are  guilty  of  so  many  of  this  sort  of  lies,  in  the  year,  as 
negligent  correspondents  ;  since  excuses  for  not  writing 
sooner  are  usually  lies  of  fear — fear  of  having  forfeited  fa- 
vour by  too  long  a  silence. 

As  the  lie  of  fear  always  proceeds,  as  I  have  before  ob- 
served, from  a  want  of  moral  courage,  it  is  often  the  re- 
sult of  want  of  resolution  to  say  "  no,"  when  "yes"  ia 
more  agreeable  to  the  feelings  ox  the  questioner.  "  Is  not 
my  new  gown  pretty  V  "  Is  not  my  new  hat  becoming  1" 
"  Is  not  my  coat  of  a  good  colour  V  There  are  few  per- 
sons who  have  courage  to  say  "  no,"  even  to  these  trivial 
questions  ;  though  the  negative  would  be  truth,  and  the 
afiirmatne,  falsehood.  And  still  less  are  they  able  to  be 
honest  in  their  replies  to  questions  of  a  more  delicate  na- 
ture. "  Is  not  my  last  work  the  bestl"  "Is  not  my 
wife  beautiful  !*'  "  Is  not  my  daughter  agreeable  V  "  Is 
not  my  son  a  fine  youth  V — those  insnaring  questions, 
which  contented  and  confiding  egotism  is  only  too  apt  to 
ask. 

Fear  of  wounding  the  feelings  of  the  interrogator  prompts 
an  affirmative  answer.  But,  perhaps,  a  lie  on  tlie.-e  occa- 
sions is  one  of  the  least  displeasing,  because  it  may  possibly 
proceed  from  a  kind  aversion  to  give  pain,  and  occasion 
disappointment ;  and  has  a  degree  of  relationship,  a  dis- 
tant family  resemblance,  to  the  lie  of  benevolence  ; 
though,  when  accurately  analysed,  even  this  good-natured 
falsehood  may  be  resolved  into  selfish  dread  of  lusing  fa- 
vour by  speaking  the  truth.  Of  these  pseudo-lies  of  be- 
nevolence I  shall  treat  in  their  turn ;  but  I  shall  now  pro- 
ceed to  relate  a  story,  to  illustrate  the  lie   of  fear, 


52  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYING. 

and  its  important  results,  under  apparently  unimportant 
circumstances. 


THE  BANK  NOTE. 

"  Are  you  returning  immediately  to  Worcester  1"  said 
Lady  Leslie,  a  widow  residing  near  that  city,  to  a  young 
officer  who  was  paying  her  a  morning  visit. — "  I  am ;  can 
I  do  any  thing  for  you  there  1" — "  Yes  ;  you  can  do  me  a 
great  kindness.  My  confidential  servant,  Baynes,  is  gone 
out  for  the  day  and  night ;  and  I  do  not  like  to  trust  my 
new  footman,  of  whom  1  know  nothing,  to  put  this  letter 
in  the  post-office,  as  it  contains  a  fifty^pound  note." — 
"  Indeed  !  that  is  a  large  sum  to  trust  to  the  posi." — 
"  Yes;  but  I  am  told  it  is  the  safest  conveyance.  It  is, 
however,  quite  necessary  that  a  person  whom  I  can  trust 
should  put  the  letter  in  the  box." — "  Certainly,"  replied 
Captain  Freeland.  Then,  with  an  air  that  showed  he  con- 
sidered himself  as  a  person  to  be  trusted,  he  deposited  the 
letter  in  safety  in  his  pocket-book,  and  took  leave  :  prom- 
ising he  would  return  to  dinner  the  next  day  which  was 
Saturday. 

On  his  road,  Freeland  met  some  of  his  brother-officers, 
who  were  going  to  pass  the  day  and  night  at  Great  Mal- 
vern ;  and  as  they  earnestly  pressed  him  to  accompany 
them,  he  wholly  forgot  the  letter  enti usted  to  his  care; 
and,  having  despatched  his  servant  to  Worcester,  for  his 
suc-de-nuit*  and  other  things,  he  turned  back  with  his 
companions,  and  passed  the  rest  of  the  day  in  that  saunter- 
ing but  amusing  idleness,  that  dolce  far  nienterf  which 
may  be  reckoned  comparitively  virtuous,  it  it  leads  to  die 
forgetfulness  of  little  duties  only,  and  it  is  not  attended  by 
the  positive  infringment  of  greater  ones.  But,  in  not  put- 
ting this  important  letter  into  the  post,  as  he  had  engaged 


Night  bag.  t  Sweet  doing  noUiing. 


THE    BANK   NOTE.  53 

to  do,  Freeland  violated  a  real  duty ;  and  he  might  have 
put  it  in  at  Malvern,  had  not  the  rencounter  with  his 
brother-officers  banished  the  commission  given  him  entire- 
ly from  his  thoughts.  Nor  did  he  remember  it  till,  as  they 
rode  through  the  village  the  next  morning,  on  their  way 
to  Worcester,  they  met  Lady  Leslie  walking  in  the  road. 

At  sight  of  her,  Freeland  recollected  with  shame  and 
confusion  that  he  had  not  fulfilled  the  charge  committed  to 
him  ;  and  fain  would  he  have  passed  her  unobserved  ;  for, 
as  she  was  a  woman  of  high  fashion,  great  talents,  and 
some  severity,  he  was  afraid  that  his  negligence,  if  avowed, 
would  not  only  cause  him  to  forfeit  her  favour,  but  expose 
him  to  her  powerful  farcasm. 

To  avoid  being  recognised  was,  however,  impossible ; 
and  as  soon  as  Lady  Leslie  saw  him,  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh  ! 
Captain  Freeland,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  !  I  have  been 
quite  uneasy  concerning  my  letter  since  I  gave  it  to  your 
care  ;  for  it  was  of  such  consequence  !  Did  you  put  it  in- 
to the  post  yesterday  1"  "  Certainly,"  replied  Freeland, 
hastily,  and  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment,  "  Certainly.  How 
could  you,  dear  Madam,  doubt  my  obedience  to  your  com- 
mands V — "  Thank  you  !  thank  you  !"  cried  she,  "  How 
you  have  relieved  my  mind  !"  He  had  so  ;  but  he  had 
painfully  burthened  his  own.  To  be  sure  it  was  only  a 
white  lie, — the  lie  of  fear.  Still  he  was  not  used  to 
utter  falsehood ;  and  he  felt  the  meanness  and  degradation 
of  this.  He  had  yet  to  learn  that  it  was  mischiveous  also; 
and  that  none  can  presume  to  say  wliere  die  consequences 
of  the  most  apparently  trivial  lie  will  end.  As  soon  as 
Freeland  parted  with  Lady  Leslie,  he  bade  his  friends 
farewell,  and,  putting  spur  to  his  horse,  scarcely  slacked 
his  pace  till  he  had  reached  a  general  post  office;  and  de- 
posited the  letter  in  safety.  "  Now,  then,"  thought  he, 
"  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  return  and  dine  with  Lady 
Leslie,  without  shrinking  from  her  penetrating  eye." 

He  found  her,  when  he  arrived,  very  pensive  and  ab- 
sent ;  so  much  so,  that  she  felt  it  necessary  to  apologize  tc 
her  guests,  informing  them  that  Mary  Benson,  an  old  ser- 
vant of  hers,  who  was  very  dear  to  her,  was  seriously  ill4 
and  painfully  circumstanced ;  and  that  she  feared  she  hao1 
not  done  her  duty  by  Iter.     "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Cap 


54  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

tain  Freeland,"  said  she,  speaking  to  him  in  a  low  voice, 
"  I  blame  myself  for  not  having  sent  for  my  confidentia( 
servant,  who  was  not  very  far  off,  and  despatched  him 
with  the  money,  instead  of  trusting  it  to  the  post." — "  It 
would  have  been  better  to  have  done  so,  certainly  .'"  re- 
plied Freeland,  deeply  blushing.  "  Yes ;  for  the  poor 
woman,  to  whom  I  sent  it,  is  not  only  herself  on  the  point 
of  being  confined,  but  she  has  a  sick  husband,  unable  to  be 
moved  ;  and  as  (but  owing  to  no  fault  of  his)  he  is  on  the 
point  of  bankruptcy,  his  cruel  landlord  has  declared  that, 
if  they  do  not  pay  their  rent  by  to-morrow,  he  will  (urn 
them  out  into  the  street,  and  seize  the  very  bed  thev  lie 
on  !  However,  as  you  put  the  letter  into  the  post  yester- 
day, they  must  get  the  fifty-pound  note  to  day,  else  they 
could  not ;  for  there  is  no  delivery  of  letters  in  London  on 
a  Sunday,  you  know."  "  True,  very  true,"  replied 
Freeland,  in  a  tone  which  he  vainly  tried  to  render  steady. 
"  Therefore,"  continued  Lady  Leslie,  "  if  you  had  told 
me,  when  we  met,  that  the  letter  was  not  gone,  I  should 
have  recalled  Baynes,  and  set  him  oil' by  the  mail  to  Lon- 
don ;  and  then  he  would  have  reached  feomerstown,  where 
the  Bensons  live,  in  good  time  ; — but  now,  though  I  own  it 
would  be  a  comfort  to  me  to  send  him,  lor  fear  of  acci- 
dent, I  could  not  get  him  back  again  soon  enough  ; — there- 
fore, I  must  let  things  take  their  chance  ;  and,  as  letters 
seldom  miscarry,  the  only  danger  is,  that  the  note  may  be 
taken  out."  She  might  have  talked  an  hour  without  an- 
swer or  interruption  ; — for  Freeland  was  too  much  shock- 
ed, too  much  conscience-stricken,  to  reply;  as  he  found 
that  he  had  not  only  told  a  falsehood,  but  that,  if  he  had 
moral  courage  enough  to  tell  the  truth,  the  mischievous 
negligence,  of  which  he  had  been  guilty,  could  have 
been  repaired ;  but.  now,  as  Lady  Leslie  said,  "  it  was  too 
late  !" 

But  while  Lady  Leslie  became  talkative,  and  able  to 
perlorm  her  duties  to  her  friends,  after  she  had  thus  unbur- 
thened  her  mind  to  Freeland,  he  grew  every  minute  more 
absent,  and  more  taciturn;  and  though  he  could  not  eat 
with  appetite,  he  threw  down,  rather  than  drunk,  re- 
peated glasses  of  hock  and  champagne,  to  enable  him  to 
rally  his  spirits ;  but  in  vain.     A  naturally  ingenuous  and 


THE    BANK    NOTE.  .  55 

generous  nature  cannot  shake  off  the  first  compunctious 
4-isitings  of  conscience  for  having  committed  an  unworthy 
action,  and  having  also  baen  the  means  of  injury  to  anoth- 
er. All  on  a  sudden,  however,  his  countenance  brighten- 
ed ;  and  as  soon  as  the  ladies  left  the  table,  he  started  up, 
left  his  compliments  and  excuses  with  Lady  Leslie's  neph- 
ew, who  presided  at  dinner;  said  he  had  a  pressing  call 
to  Worcester;  and,  when  there,  as  the  London  mail  was 
gone,  lie  threw  himself  into  n  postchaise,  and  set  off  for 
Somerstown,  which  Lady  Leslie  had  named  as  the  resi- 
dence of  Mary  Benson.  "At  least,"  said  Freeland  to 
himself  with  a  lightened  heart,  "  I  shall  now  have  the  sat- 
isfaction of  doing  all  I  can  to  repair  my  fault."  But,  ow- 
ing to  the  delay  occasioned  by  want  of  horses,  and  by  find- 
ing the  hostlers  at  the  inns  in  bed,  he  did  not  reach  Lon- 
don and  the  place  of  iris  destination  till  the  wretched  fami- 
ly had  been  dislodged;  while  the  unhappy  wife  was  weep- 
ing, not  only  over  the  disgrace  of  being  so  removed,  and 
for  her  own  and  her  husband's  increasing  illness  in  conse- 
quence of  it,  but  from  the  agonizing  suspicion  that  the  mis- 
tress and  friend,  whom  she  had  so  long  loved  and  relied  upon, 
had  disregarded  the  tale  of  her  sorrows,  and  had  refused  to 
relieve  her  necessities  !  Frecland  soon  found  a  conductor 
to  the  mean  lodging  in  which  the  Bensons  had  obtained 
shelter ;  for  they  were  well  known  ;  and  their  hard  fate 
was  generally  pitied  : — hat  it  was  some  time  before  he 
could  speak,  as  he  stood  bv  their  bedside — he  was  choked 
with  painful  emotion  at  first ;  with  pleasing  emotion  after- 
wards : — for  his  conscience  smote  him  for  the  pain  he  had 
occasioned,  and  applauded  him  for  the  pleasure  which  he 
came  to  bestow. — "  I  come,"  said  he,  at  length,  (while 
the  sufferers  waited  in  almost  angry  wonder,  to  hear  his 
reason  for  thus  intruding  on  them)  "  I  come  to  tell  you, 
from  your  kind  friend,  Lady  Leslie," — M  Then  she  has 
not  forgoften  me  !"  screamed  out  the  poor  woman,  aK 
most  gasping  for  breath.  "  No,  to  be  sure  not  : — ehe 
could  not  forget  you ;    she  was   incapable      .  /' 

here  his  voice  wholly  failed  him.  "  Thame  neaven  !v 
cried  she,  tears  trickling  down  her  pale  cneek.  "  I  cars 
bear  any  thing  now ;  for  that  was  the  ©merest  part  of 
iiH  r*'— »"  My  good  woman,"  said  Freelapt  '  "it  was  aw* 


56  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYING. 

ing  to  a  mistake  : — pshaw  !  no  :  it  was  owing  to  my  fault, 
that  you  did  not  receive  a  £50  note  by  the  post  yeater- 
day  :" — "  £50  !"  cried  the  poor  man,  wringing  his  hands, 
"  why  that  would  have  more  than  paid  all  we  owed  ;  and 
I  could  have  gone  on  with  my  business,  and  our  lives  would 
not  have  been  risked,  nor  1  disgraced  !"  Freeland  now 
turned  away,  unable  to  say  a  word  more ;  but  recover- 
ing himself,  he  again  drew  near  them  ;  and  throwing 
his  purse  to  the  agitated  speaker,  said  "  there  !  get  well  ! 
only  get  well  !  and  whatever  you  want  shall  be  yours  ! 
or  I  shall  never  lose  this  horrible  choking  again  while  I 
live  !" 

Freeland  took  a  walk  after  this  scene,  and  with  hasty, 
rapid  strides ;  the  painful  choking  being  his  companion 
very  often  during  the  course  of  it,— for  he  was  haunted  by 
the  image  of  those  whom  he  had  disgraced  ; — and  he  could 
not  help  remembering  that  however  blameable  his  negli- 
gence might  be,  it  was  nothing,  either  in  sinfulness  or  mis- 
chief, to  the  lie  told  to  conceal  it ;  and  that,  but  for  that 
lie  of  fear,  the  effects  of  his  negligence  might  have 
been  repaired  in  time. 

But  he  was  resolved  that  he  would  not  leave  Sumers- 
town  till  he  had  seen  these  poor  people  settled  in  a  good 
lodging.  He  therefore  hired  a  conveyance  for  them,  and 
superintended  their  removal  that  evening  to  apartments 
full  of  every  necessary  comfort.  "My  good  friends,"  said 
he,  "  I  cannot  recall  the  mortification  and  disgrace  which 
you  have  endured  through  my  fault ;  but  1  trust  that  you 
will  have  gained,  in  the  end,  by  leaving  a  cruel  landlord, 
who  had  no  pity  for  your  unmerited  poverty.  Lady  Les- 
lie's note  will,  I  trust,  reach  you  to-morrow  ; — but  if  not, 
I  will  make  up  the  loss  ;  therefore  be  easy  !  and  when  I 
go  away,  may  I  have  the  comfort  of  knowing  that  your  re- 
moval has  done  you  no  harm  !" 

He  then,  but  not  till  then,  had  courage  to  write  to  Lady 
Leslie,  and  tell  her  the  whole  truth  ;  concluding  his  letter 
thus  : 

"  If  your  interesting  proteges  have  not  suffered  in  their 
health,  I  shall  not  regret  what  has  happened ;  because  I 
trust  that  it  will  be  a  lesson  to  me  through  life,  and  teach 
me  never  to  tell  even  the  most  apparently  trivial  white 


LIES    OF    BENEVOLNCE.  57 

lie  again.  How  unimportant  this  violation  of  truth  ap- 
peared to  me  at  the  moment !  and  bow  sufficiently  motiv- 
ed !  as  it  was  to  avoid  falling  in  your  estimation  ;  but  it 
was,  you  see,  overruled  for  evil ; — ami  agony  of  mind,  dis- 
grace, and  perhaps  ri.-k  of  life,  were  the  consequences  of 
it  to  innocent  individuals  ; — not  to  mention,  my  own  pangs; 
— the  pangs  of  an  upbraiding  conscience.  But  forgive  me, 
my  dear  Lady  Leslie.  However,  I  trust  that  this  evil,  so 
deeply  repented  of,  will  be  blessed  to  us  all ;  but  it  will  be 
long  before  I  forgive  myself.'' 

Lady  Leslie  was  delighted  with  this  candid  letter, 
though  grieved  by  its  painful  details,  while  she  viewed 
with  approbation  the  amends  which  her  young  friend 
had  made,  and  his  modest  disregard  of  his  own  exertions. 

The  note  arrived  in  safety  ;  and  Freeland  left  the  afflict- 
ed couple  better  in  health,  and  quite  happy  in  mind; — as 
his  bounty  and  Lady  Leslie's  had  left  diem  nothing  to  de- 
sire in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view. 

When  Lady  Leslie  and  he  met,  she  praised  his  virtue, 
while  she  blamed  his  fault  ;  and  they  fortified  each  odier 
in  the  wise  and  moral  resolution,  never  to  violate  truth 
again,  even  on  the  slightest  occasion;  as  a  lie,  when  told 
however  unimportant  it  may  at  the  time  appear,  is  like 
an  arrow  shot  over  a  house,  whose  course  in  unseen, 
and  may  be  unintentionally  the  cause,  to  some  one,  of  ag- 
ony or  death. 


CHAPTER  V. 

LIES  FALSELY  CALLED  LIES  OF  BENEVOLEXCE. 


These  are  lies  which  are  occasioned  by  a  selfish  dread 
of  loting  favour,  and  provoking  displeasure,  by  speaking 
the  truth,  rather  than  by  real  benevolence.     Pesaons,  calt 


58  ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    LYING.  / 

ing  themselves  benevolent,  withhold  disagreeable  truths, 
and  utter  agreeable  falsehoods,  from  a  wish  to  give  pleas- 
ure, or  to  avoid  giving  pain.  If  you  say  that  you  are  look- 
ing ill,  they  tell  you  that  you  are  looking  well.  If  you  ex- 
press a  fear  that  you  are  growing  corpulent,  they  say  you 
are  only  just  as  fat  as  you  ought  to  be.  If  you  are  hoarse 
in  singing,  and  painfully  conscious  of  it,  they  declare  that 
they  did  not  perceive  it.  And  this  not  from  the  desire  of 
flattering  you,  or  from  the  malignant  one  of  wishing  to  ren- 
der you  ridiculous,  by  imposing  on  your  dredulity,  but 
from  die  desire  of  making  you  pleased  with  yourself. 
In  short  they  lay  it  down  as  a  rule,  that  you  must  never 
scruple  to  sacrifice  the  truth,  when  die  alternative  is  giving 
the  slightest  pain  or  mortification  to  any  one. 

I  shall  leave  my  readers  to  decide  whether  the  lies  of 
fear  or  of  benevolence  preponderate,  in  the  following  tri- 
fling, characteristic  anecdote. 


THE    POTTED    SPRATS.  59 


A  TALE  OF  POTTED  SPRATS. 

Most  mistressess  of  families  have  a  family  receipt-book 
and  are  apt  to  believe  that  no  receipts  are  so  good  as  their 
own. 

With  one  of  these  notable  ladies  a  young  housekeeper 
went  to  pass  a  few  days,  both  at  her  town  and  country- 
house.  The  hostess  was  skilled,  not  only  in  culinary  lore, 
but  in  economy  ;  and  was  in  the  habit  of  sitting  on  het 
table,  even  when  not  alone,  whatever  her  taste  or  careful- 
ness had  led  her  to  pot,  pickle,  or  preserve,  for  occasional 
use. 

Before  a  meagre  family  dinner  was  quite  over,  a  dish  of 

potted  spttATS  was  set  before  the    lady    of  the  house, 

who,  expatiating  on  their  excellence,  derived  from  a  fam- 

ly  receipt  of  a  century  old,   pressed  her  still   unsatisfied 

uest  to  partake  of  thein. 

The  dish  was  as  good  as  much  salt  and  a  little  spice 
could  make  it ;  but  it  had  one  peculiarity  ; — it  had  a 
strong  flavour  of  garlick,  and  to  garlick  the  poor  guest 
had  a  great  dislike. 

But  she  was  a  timid  woman  ;  and  good-breeding,  and 
what  she  called  benevolence,  said,  "  persevere  a  swal- 
low," though  her  palate  said,  •'  no."  "  Is  it  not  excel- 
lent T' — said  the  hostess.— "  Very  ;*'  faultered  out  the 
half-suffocated  guest ; — and  this  was  lie  the  first.  "  Did 
you  ever  eat  any  thing  like  it  before  V — "  Never,"  re- 
plied the  other  more  firmly  ;  for  then  she  knew  that  she 
spoke  the  truth,  and  longing  to  add,  "  and  T  hope  I  nev- 
er sin II  eat  anv  thing  like  it  again." — "  I  will  give  you  the 
receipt,"  said  the  lady,  kindly  ;  "it  will  be  of  use  to  you  as  a 
young  housekeeper;  for  it  is  economical,  as  well  as  good,and 
serves  to  make  out,  when  we  have  a  scrap-dinner.  My  ser- 
vants often  dine  on  it." — "  I  wonder  you  can  get  any  ser- 
vants to  live  with  you,"  thought  the  guest ;  "  but  I  dare  say 
you  do  not  get  any  one  to  stay  long  !'" — "  You  do  not,  how 
ever,  eat  as  if  yoa  liked  it." — "  Oh  yes,  indeed,  I  do, 
very  much,"  (lie  the  second)  she  replied  ;  "but  you  forget  I 


60  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

have  aiready  eaten  a  good  dinner  :"  (lie  the  third.  Alas  ! 
what  had  benevolence,  so  called,  to  answer  for  on  this  oc- 
casion !) 

"  Well,  I  am  delighted  to  find  that  you  like  my  sprats," 
said  the  flattered  hostess,  while  the  cloth  was  removing ; 
adding,  "  John  !  do  not  let  those  sprats  be  eaten  in  the 
kitchen  !"  an  order  which  the  guest  heard  with  indescriba- 
ble alarm. 

The  next  day  they  were  to  set  off  for  the  country-house, 
or  cottage.  When  they  were  seated  in  the  carriage,  a  large 
box  was  put  in,  and  the  guest  landed  she  smelt  garlick  ; 
but 

"  .  .  .  .  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
"  'Tis  folly  to  be  wise." 

She  therefore  asked  no  questions  ;  but  tried  to  enjoy  the 
present,  regardless  of  the  future.  At  a  certain  distance 
they  stopped  to  bait  the  horses.  There  the  guest  expected 
that  they  should  get  out  and  take  some  refreshment ;  but 
her  economical  companion,  with  a  shrewd  wink  of  the 
eye,  observed,  "  I  always  sit  in  the  carriage  on  these  oc- 
casions. If  one  gets  out,  the  people  at  the  inn  expect  one 
to  order  a  luncheon.  I„  therefore  take  mine  with  me." 
So  saying,  John  was  sufinnoned  to  drag  the  carriage  out 
of  sight  of  the  inn  windows.  He  then  unpacked  the  box, 
took  out  of  it  knives  and  forks,  plates,  &c,  and  also  ajar, 
which,  impregnating  the  air  with  its  effluvia,  even  before  it 
was  opened,  disclosed  to  the  alarmed  guest  that  its  contents 
were  the  dreaded  sprats  ! 

"  Alas"1."  thought  she,  "  Pandora's  box  was  nothing  to 
this  !  for  in  that,  Hope  remained  behind  ;  but,  at  the  bot- 
ton  of  this,  is  Despair !"  In  vain  did  the  unhappy  lady  de- 
clare (lie  the  fourth)  that  "  she  had  no  appetite,  and  (lie 
the  fifth)  that  she  never  ate  in  the  morning."  Her  hostess 
would  take  no  denial.  However,  she  contrived  to  get.  a 
piece  of  sprat  down,  enveloped  in  bread  ;  and  the  rest. she 
threw  out  of  the  window,  when  her  companion  was  look- 
ing another  way — who,  on  turning  round,  exclaimed,  "  so, 
you  have  soon  despatched  the  fish  !  let  me  give  you  anoth- 
er ;  do  not  refuse,  because  you  think  they  arc  nearly  finish- 


THE    POTTED    SPRATS.  61 

ed ;  I  assure  you  there  are  several  left  ;  and  (delightful  in- 
formation !)  we  shall  have  a  fresh  supply  to-morrow  !" 
However,  this  time  she  was  allowed  to  know  when  she  had 
eaten  enough;  and  the  travellers  proceeded  to  their  jour- 
ney's end. 

This  day,  the  sprats  did  not  appear  at  dinner; — but, 
there  being  only  a  few  left,  they  were  kept  for  a  bonne 
bouche,  and  reserved  for  supper  !  a  meal,  of  which,  this 
evening,  on  account  of  indisposition,  the  hostess  did  not 
partake,  and  was  therefore  at  liberty  to  attend  entirely  to 
the  wants  of  her  guest,  who  would  fain  have  declined  eat- 
ing also,  but  it  was  impossible  ;  she  had  just  declared  that 
she  was  quite  well,  and  had  often  owned  that  she  enjoyed  a 
piece  of  supper  after  an  early  dinner.  There  was  there- 
fore no  retreat  from  the  maze  in  which  her  insincerity  had 
involved  her;  and  eat  she  must:  but,  when  she  again 
smelt  on  her  plate  the  nauseous  composition  which  being 
near  the  bottom  of  the  pot,  was  more  disagreeable  than 
ever,  human  patience  and  human  infirmity  could  bear  no 
more ;  the  scarcely  tasted  morsel  fell  from  her  lips,  and 
she  rushed  precipitately  into  the  open  air,  almost  dis- 
posed to  execrate,  in  her  heart,  potted  sprats,  the  good 
breeding  of  her  officious  hostess,  and  even  Benevolence 
itself. 


Some  may  observe,  on  reading  this  story,  "  What  a 
foolish  creature  the  guest  must  have  been  !  and  how  im- 
probable it  is  that  any  one  should  scruple  to  say,  the  dish 
is  disagreeable,  and  I  hate  garlick  !"  But  it  is  my  convic- 
tion that  the  guest,  on  this  occasion,  exhibited  only  a  slight- 
ly-exaggerated specimen  of  the  usual  conduct  of  those  who 
have  been  taught  to  conduct  themselves  wholly  by  the  artifi- 
cial rules  of  civilized  society,  of  which,  generally  speaking, 
falsehood  is  the  basis. 

Benevolence  is  certainly  one  of  the  first  of  virtues  ;  and 
its  result  is  an  amiable  aversion  to  wound  the  feelings  of 
others,  even  in  trifles ;   there  benevolence  and  politeness 


62  ILLUSTRATIONS   OF   LYING. 

may  be  considered  as  the  same  thing ;  but  Worldly 
Politeness  is  only  a  copy  of  benevolence.  Benevolence 
is  gold  :  this  politeness  a  paper  currency,  contrived  as  its 
substitute  ;  as  society,  being  aware  that  benevolence  is  as 
rare  as  it  is  precious,  and  that  few  are  able  to  distinguish, 
in  any  thing,  the  false  from  the  true,  resolve,  in  lieu  of  be- 
nevolence, to  receive  worldly  politeness,  with  all 
her  train  of  deceitful  welcomes,  heartless  regrets,  false  ap- 
probations, and  treacherous  smiles ;  those  alluring  seem- 
ings,  which  shine  around  her  brow,  and  enable  her  to  pass 
for  Benevolence  herself. 

But  how  must  the  religious  and  the  moral  dislike  the 
one,  though  they  venerate  the  other  !  The  kindness  of 
the  worldly  Polite  only  lives  its  little  hour  in  one's  pres- 
ence;  but  that  of  the  Benevolent  retains  its  life  and  sweet- 
new  in  one's  absence.  The  worldly  polite  will  often  make 
the  objects  of  their  greatest  flatteries  and  attentions,  when 
present,  the  butt  of  their  ridicule  as* soon  as  they  see  them 
no  more ; — while  the  benevolent  hold  the  characters  and 
qualities  of  their  associates  in  a  sort  of  holy  keeping  at  all 
times,  and  are  as  indulgent  to  the  absent  as  they  were 
attentive  to  the  present.  The  kindness  of  the  worldly 
polite  is  the  gay  and  pleasing  flower  worn  in  the  bosom,  as 
die  ornament  of  a  few  hours;  then  suffered  to  fade,  and 
thrown  by,  when  it  is  wanted  no  longer ; — but  that  of  the 
really  benevolent  is  like  the  fresh -springing  evergreen, 
which  blooms  on  through  all  times  and  all  seasons,  unfading 
in  beauty,  and  undiminishing  in  sweetness.  But,  it  may 
be  asked,  whether  I  do  not  admit  that  the  principle  of  nev- 
er wounding  the  self-love  or  feelings  of  any  one  is  a  benev- 
olent principle ;  and  whether  it  be  not  commendable  to 
act  on  it  continually.  Certainly  ;  if  sincerity  goes  hand  in 
hand  with  benevolence.  But  where  is  your  benevolence,  if 
you  praise  those,  to  their  faces,  whom  you  abuse  as  soon 
as  Uiey  have  left  you  1 — where  your  benevolence,  if  you 
welcome  those,  with  smiling  urbanity,  whom  you  see  drive 
off  with  a  "  Well ;  I  am  glad  they  are  gone  V  and  how 
common  is  it,  to  hear  persons,  who  think  themselves  very 
moral,  and  very  kind,  begin,  as  soon  as  their  guests  are 
departed,  and  even  when  they  are  scarcely  out  of  hearing, 
to  criticise  their  dress,  their  manners,  and  their  charao- 


THE    POTTED  SPRAT9.  63 

ters  ;  while  the  poor  unconscious  visiters,  the  dupes  of 
their  deceitful  courstesy,  are  going  home  delighted  with 
their  visit,  and  saying  what  a  charming  evening  they  have 
passed,  and  what  agreeable  and  kind-hearted  person  the 
master  and  mistress  of  the  house,  and  their  family  are  !"- 
Surely,  then,  I  am  not  refining  too  much  when  I  assert  that 
the  cordial  secmings,  which  these  deluded  guests  were  re- 
ceived, treated,  and  parted  with,  were  any  thing  rather 
than  the  lies  of  benevolence.  I  also  believe  that 
those  who  scruple  not,  even  from  well-intentioned  kind- 
ness, to  utter  spontaneous  falsehoods,  are  not  gifted  with 
much  judgment  and  real  feeling,  nor  are  they  given  to  think 
deeply  ;  for  the  virtues  are  nearly  related,  and  live  in  the 
greatest  harmony  with  each  other ; — consequently,  sinceri- 
ty and  benevolence  must  always  agree,  and  not,  as  is  often 
supposed,  be  at  variance  with  each  other.  The  truly  be- 
nevolent feel,  and  cultivate,  such  candid  and  kind  views  of 
those  who  associate  with  them,  that  they  need  not  fear  to 
be  sincere  in  their  answers ;  and  if  obliged  to  speak  an 
unwelcome  truth,  or  an  unwelcome  opinion,  their  well- 
principled  kindness  teaches  them  some  way  of  making  what 
they  utter  palatable  ;  and  benevolence  is  gratified  without 
injury  to  sincerity. 

It  is  a  common  assertion,  that  society  is  so  consiituted, 
that  it  is  impossible  to  tell  the  truth  always  : — but  if  those 
who  possess  good  sense  would  use  it  as  zealously  to  remove 
obstacles  in  the  way  of  spontaneous  truth  as  they  do  to 
iustify  themselves  in  the  practice  of  falsehood,  the  difficul- 
ty would  vanish.  Besides,  truth  is  so  uncommon  an  in- 
gredient in  society,  that  few  are  acquainted  with  it  suffi- 
ciently to  know  whether  it  be  admissible  or  not.  A  pious 
and  highly-gifted  man  said,  in  my  presence,  to  a  friend 
whom  I  esteem  and  admire,  and  who  had  asserted  that 
truth  cannot  always  \>e  told  in  society,  "  Has  any  one  tri- 
ed it  1 — We  have  all  of  us,  in  the  course  of  our  lives,  seen 
dead  birds  of  Paradise  so  often,  that  we  should  scarcely 
take  the  trouble  of  going  to  see  one  now.  But  the  Mar- 
quis of  Hastings  has  brought  over  a  living  bird  of  Para- 
dise ;  and  every  one  is  eagerly  endeavouring  to  procure  a 
sight  of  that.  I  therefore  prognosticate  that  were  spon- 
taneous truth  to  be  told  in   society,  where  it  now   is 


64  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF    LYING. 

rarely,  if  ever,  heard,  real,  living  truth  would  be  as 
much  sought  after,  and  admired,  as  the  living  bird  of  Para- 
dise."* 


The  following  anecdote  exhibits  that  Lie  which  some 
may  call  the  lie  of  Benevolence,  and  others,  the  lie  of 
fear  ; — that  is,  the  dread  of  loosing  favour,  by  wound- 
ing a  person's  self-love.  I  myself  denominate  it  the 
latter. 


AN  AUTHORESS  AND  HER  AUDITORS. 

A  young  ladyx  who  valued  herself  on  her  benevolence 
and  good-breeding,  and  had  as  much  respect  for  truth  a3 
those  who  live  in  the  world  usually  have,  was  invited  by  an 
authoress,  whose  favour  she  coveted,  and  by  whose  atten- 
tion she  was  flattered,  to  come  and  hear  her  read  a  man- 
uscript tragi -comedy.  The  other  auditor  was  an  old  lady, 
who,  to  considerable  personal  ugliness,  united  strange 
grimaces,  and  convulsive  twitchings  of  the  face  chiefly  the 
result  of  physical  causes. 

:  The  authoress  read  in  so  affected  and  dramatic  a  man- 
ner, that  the  young  lady's  boasted  benevolence  had  no  pow- 
er to  curb  her  propensity  to  laughter ;  which  being  per- 
ceived by  the  reader,  she  stopped  in  angry  consternation, 
and  desired  to  know  whether  she  laughed  at  her,  or  her 
composition.  At  first  she  was  too  much  fluttered  to  make 
any  reply  ; — but  as  she  dared  not  own  the  truth,  and  had 
no  scruple  against  being  guilty  of  deception,  she  cleverly 

*  I  fear  that  I  have  given  the  word  weakly  and  im- 
perfectly ;  but  I  know  I  am  correct,  as  to  the  senti- 
ment and  the  illustration.  The  speaker  was  Edward 
Ikying. 


AN  AUTHORESS  AND  HER  AUDITORS.      G5 

resolved  to  excuse  herself  by  a  practical  lie.  She  there- 
fore trod  on  her  friend's  (pot,  elbowed  her,  and,  by  winks 
and  signs,  tried  to  make  her  believe  that  it  was  the  grima- 
ces of  her  opposite  neighbour,  who  was  quietly  knitting  and 
twitching  as  usual,  which  had  such  an  effect  un  her  risible 
faculties  ;  and  the  deceived  authoress3  smiling  herself  when 
ber  young  guest  directed  her  eye  to  lier  unconscious  vis-a* 
vis,  resumed  lier  reading  with  a  lightened  brow  and  increas- 
ed energy. 

This  added  to  the  young  lady's  amusement ;  as  she  could 
now  indulge  her  risibility  occasionally  at  the  authoress's 
expence,  without  exciting  her  suspicions  ;  especially  as 
the  manuscript  was  sometimes  intended  to  excite  smiles,  if 
not  laughter  ;  and  the  self-love  of  the  writer  led  her  to  sup- 
pose that  her  hearer's  mirth  was  the  result  of  her  comic 
powers.  But  the  treacherous  gratification  of  the  auditor 
was  soon  at  an  end.  The  manuscript  was  meant  to  move 
tears  as  well  as  smiles ;  but  as  the  matter  became  more 
pathetic,  the  manner  became  more  ludicrous ;  and  the  youth- 
ful hearer  could  no  more  force  a  tear  than  she  could  restrain 
a  laugh;  til!  the  mortified  authoress,  irritated  into  forgel- 
fulness  of  all  feeling  and  propriety,  exclaimed,  "Indeed, 

Mrs. ,  I  must  desire  you  to  move  four  seat,    and  sit 

where  Miss does  not  see  you ;    for  you   make  such 

queer  grimaces  that  you  draw  her  attention  and  cause  her 
to  laugh  when  she  should  be  listening  to  me."  The  erring 
but  humane  girl  was  overwhelmed  with  dismay  at  the  un- 
expected exposure  ;  and  when  the  poor  infirm  old  lady  re- 
plied, in  a  faultering  tone,  "  Is  she  indeed  laughing  at  me  1" 
she  could  scarcely  refrain  from  telling  the  truth,  and  assur- 
ing her  that  she  was  incapable  of  such  cruelty.  "  Yes  ;*" 
rejoined  the  authoress,  in  a  paroxysm  of  wounded  self-love, 
"  She  owned  to  me  soon  after  she  began,  that  you  occa- 
sioned her  ill-timid  mirth  ;  and  when  I  looked  at  you,  I 
could  hardly  help  smiling  myself;  but  I  am  sure  you  could 
help  making  such  faces,  if  you  would.'' — "  Child  !"  cried 
the  old  lady,  while  tears  of  wounded  sensibility  trickled 
down  her  pale  cheeks,  "  and  you,  my  unjust  friend,  I  hope 
and  trust  that  I  forgive  you  both ;  but,  if  ever  you  should 
be  paralytic  yourselves,  may  you  remember  this  evening, 
and  learn  to  repent  of  having  been  provoked  to  laugh  by 
E 


66  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF   LYING. 

ilis  physical  weakness  of  a  palsied  old  woman  !"  The  in- 
dignant authoress  was  now  printout,  .subdued,  and  asham- 
ed,— and  earnestly  asked  pardon  tor  her  unkindness  ;  but 
the  young  offender,  whose  acted  lie  had  exposed  her  to 
eeem  guilty  of  a  fault  which  she  had  not  committed,  was 
in  an  agony  to  which  expression  was  inadequate.  But,  to 
exculpate  herself  was  impossible  :  she  could  only  give  her 
wounded  victim  tear  for  tear. 

To  attend  to  a  farther  perusal  of  the  manuscript  was 
impossible.  The  old  lady  desired  that  her  carriage  should 
come  round  directly  ;  the  authoress  locked  up  her  compo- 
sition, that  had  been  so  ill  received;  and  the  young  lady, 
who  had  been  proud  of  the  acquaintance  of  each,  became 
an  object  of  suspicion  and  dislike  both  to  the  one  and  the 
other;  since  the  former  considered  her  to  be  of  a  cruel 
and  unfeeling  nature,  and  the  latter  could  not  conceal  from 
herself  the  mortifying  truth,  that  her  play  must  be  wholly 
devoid  of  interest,  as  it  had  utterly  failed  either  to  rivet  or 
to  attract  her  young  auditor's  attention. 

But,  though  this  girl  lost  two  valued  acquaintances  by 
acting  a  lie  (a  harmless  white  lie,  as  it  is  called,)  I  fea, 
she  was  not  taught  or  amended  by  the  circumstance  ;  but 
deplored  her  want  of  luck,  rather  than  her  want  of  integ- 
rity ;  and,  had  her  deception  met  with  the  success  which 
she  expected,  she  would  probably  have  boasted  of  her  in- 
genious artifice  to  her  acquaintance; — nor  can  I  help  be- 
lieving that  she  goes  on  in  the  same  way  whenever  she  is 
tompted  to  do  so,  and  values  herself  on  the  lies  of  selfish 
fkar,  which  she  dignifies  by  the  name  of  lies  of  be- 
nevolence. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  that  the  kindness  which  prompts 
10  really  erroneous  conduct  cannot  continue  to  bear  even  a 
remote  connexion  with  real  benevolence.  The  mistaken 
girl,  in  the  anecdote  related  above,  begins  with  what  she 
calls,  a  virtuous  deception.  She  could  not  wound  the  feel- 
ings of  the  authoress  by  owning  that  she  laughed  at  her 
mode  of  reading  :  she  therefore  accused  herself  of  a  much 
worse  fault;  that  of  laughing  at  the  personal  infirmities 
of  a  fellow-creature  ;  and  then  finding  that  her  artifice  en- 
abled her  to  indulge  her  sense  of  the  ridiculous  with  impu- 
nity, ehe  at  length  laughs  treacherously  and  systematically 


LIES  OF    CONVENIENCE.  67 

because  she  dares  do  so,  and  not  involuntarily,  as  she  did 
at  first,  at  her  unsuspecting  friend.  Thus  such  hollow  un- 
principled benevolence  as  hers  soon  degenerated  into  abso- 
lute malevolence.  But,  had  this  girl  been  a  girl  of  prin- 
ciple and  of  real  benevolence,  she  might  have  healed  her 
friend's  vanity  at  the  same  time  that  she  wounded  it,  by 
saying,  after  she  had  owned  that  her  mode  of  reading  made 
her  laugh,  that  she  was  now  convinced  of  the  truth  of  what 
she  had  often  heard  ;  namely,  that  authors  rarely  do  jus- 
tice to  their  own  works,  when  they  read  them  aloud  them- 
selves, however  well  they  may  read  the  works  of  others  ; 
because  they  are  naturally  so  nervous  on  the  occasion, 
that  they  are  laughably  violent,  because  painfully  agi- 
tated. 

This  reply  could  not  have  offended  her  friend  greatly  if 
at  all;  and  it  might  have  led  her  to  moderate  her  outr-i 
manner  of  reading.  She  would  in  consequence  have  ap- 
peared to  more  advantage  ;  and  the  interest  of  real  benev- 
olence, namely,  the  doing  good  to  a  fellow-creature,  would 
have  been  served,  and  she  would  not,  by  a  vain  attempt  to 
save  a  friend's  vanity  from  being  hurt,  have  been  the 
means  of  wounding  the  feelings  of  an  afflicted  woman  ; 
have  incurred  the  charge  of  inhumanity,  which  she  by  no 
means  deserved  ;  and  have  vainly,  as  well  as  grossly,  sac- 
rificed the  interest  of  Truth. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LIES  OF  CONVENIENCE. 


I  have  now  before  me  a  very  copious  subject :  and  shall 
begin  by  that  most  common  lie  of  convenience  ;  the  or- 
der to  servants,  to  say  "  Not  at  home  ;"  a  custom  which 
even  some  moralists  defend,  because  they  say  tAiat  U  is  not 


68  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYING 

lying  ;  as  it  deceives  no  one.  But  this  I  deny ; — as  1 
know  it  is  often  meant  to  deceive.  I  know  that  if  the  per- 
son, angry  at  being  refused  admittance,  says,  at  the  next 
meeting  with  die  denied  person,  "  I  am  sure  you  ivere  at 
home  such  a  day,  when  I  called,  but  did  not  choose  to  see 
me,"  the  answer  is,  "  Oh  dear,  no; — how  can  you  say  sol 
I  am  sure  I  was  not  at  home ; — for  I  am  never  denied  to 
you  ;"  though  the  speaker  is  conscious  all  the  while  that 
*'  not  at  home"  was  intended  to  deceive,  as  well  as  to 
deny.  But,  if  it  be  true  Uiat  "  not  at  home"  is  not  intnd- 
ed  to  deceive,  and  is  a  form  used  merely  to  exclude  visi- 
ters with  as  little  trouble  as  possible,  I  would  ask  whether 
it  was  not  just  as  easy  to  say,  "  my  master,  or  mistress,  is 
engaged  ;  ami  can  see  no  one  this  morning."  Why  have 
recourse  even  to  the  appearance  of  falsehood,  when  truth 
would  answer  every  purpose  just  as  well  T 

But  if  "  not  at  home"'  be  understood  amongst  equals, 
merely  as  a  legitimate  excuse,  it  still  is  highly  objectiona- 
ble; because  it  must  have  a  most  pernicious  effect  on  the 
minds  of  servants,  who  cannot  be  supposed  parties  to  this 
implied  compact  amongst  their  superiors,  and  must  there- 
fore understand  the  order  literally  ;  which  is,  "  go,  and 
lie  for  my  convenience  !"  How  then,  I  ask  in  the  name  of 
justice  and  common  sense,  can  I,  after  giving  such  an  or- 
der, resent  any  lie  which  servants  may  choose  to  tell  me 
for  their  own  convenience,  pleasure,  or  interest  1 

Thoughtless  and  injudicious  (I  do  not  like  to  add,)  tm- 
principled  persons,  sometimes  say  to  servants,  when  they 
have  denied  their  mistress,  "  Oh  fye  !  how  can  you  tell  me 
such  a  fib  without  blushing  1  I  am  ashamed  of  you  ! 
You  know  your  lady  is  at  home  ; — well ; — I  am  really 
shocked  at  your  having  so  much  effrontery  as  to  tell  such 
a  lie  with  so  grave  a  face  !  But,  give  my  compliments  to 
your  mistress,  and  tell  her,  I  hope  that  she  will  see  me  the 
next  time  I  call;" — and  all  this  uttered  in  a  laughing 
manner,  as  if  the  moral  degradation  of  the  poor  servant 
were  an  excellent  joke  !  But  on  these  occasions,  wlrat 
can  the  effect  of  such  joking  be  on  the  conscious  liars  1  It 
must  either  lead  them  to  think  as  lightly  of  truth  as  their 
reprovers  themselves,  (since  they  seem  more  amused  than 
shucked  ai  U»e  detected  violation  of  it,)  or  they  will  tuwi 


LIES  OF    CONVENIENCE.  69 

away  distressed  in  conscience,  degraded  in  their  own  eyes, 
for  having  obeyed  their  employer,  and  feeling  a  degree  of 
virtuous  indignation  against  those  persons  who  have,  by 
their  immoral  command  been  the  moans  of  their  painful 
degradation  ; — nay,  their  master  and  mistress  will  he  fin 
ever  lowered  in  their  servant's  esteem  ;  they  will  feel  that 
the  teacher  of  a  lie  is  brought  down  on  a  level  with  the  ut- 
terer  of  it ;  and  the  chances  are  that,  during  the  rest  of their 
service,  they  will  without  scruple  use  against  their  em- 
ployers the"  dexterity  which  they  have  taught  them  to  use 
asainst  others.* 


*  As  I  feel  a  great  desire  to  lay  before  my  readers  the 
strongest  arguments  possible,  to  prove  the  vicious  tenden- 
cy of  even  the  most  tolerated  lie  of  convenience  ;  namely, 
the  order  to  servants  to  say  "  Not  at  home  ;"  and  as  I 
wholly  distrust  my  own  powers  of  arguing  with  effect  on 
this,  or  any  other  subject,  I  give  the  following  extracts 
from  Dr.  Chalmers's  "  Discourses  on  tin*  Application  of 
Christianity  to  the  Commercial  and  ordinary  Affairs  of 
Life  j" — discourses  which  abundantly  and  eloquently  prove 
the  sinfulness  of  deceit  in  general,  and  the  fearful  responsi- 
bility incurred  by  all  who  depart,  even  in  the  most  common 
occurrences,  from  that  undeviating  practice  of  truth  which 
is  every  where  enjoined  on  Christians  in  the  pages  of  holy 
writ.  But  I  shall,  though  reluctantly,  confine  myself  in 
these  extracts  to  what  bears  immediately  on  the  subject  be- 
fore us.  I  must  however  state,  injustice  to  myself,  that 
my  remarks  on  the  same  points  were  not  only  written, 
but  printed  and  published,  in  a  periodical  work,  be- 
fore I  knew  that  Dr.  Chalmers  had  written  the  book  in 
question. 

"  You  put  a  lie  into  the  mouth  of  a  dependant,  and  that 
for  the  purpose  of  protecting  your  time  from  such  an  en- 
encroachment  as  you  would  not  feel  to  be  convenient,  or 
agreeable.  Look  to  the  little  account  that  is  made  of  a 
brother's  and  sister's  eternity.  Behold  the  guilty  task  that 
is  thus  unmercifully  laid  upon  one  who  is  shortly  to  appear 
l>efore  the  judgment-seat  of  Christ.  Think  of  the  entan- 
glement that  is  thus  made  to  beset  the  path  of  a  creature 


70  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

But  amongst  the  most  frequent  lies  of  convenience  are 
tiiose  which  are  told  relative  to  engagements,  which  they 
who  make  them  are  averse  to  keep.  "  Headaches,  bad 
colds,  unexpected  visitors  from  the  country,"  all  these  in 
their  turn,  are  used  as  lies  of  convenience,  and  gratify  indo- 
lence, or  caprice,  at  the  expense  of  integrity. 


who  is  imperishable.  1'h at,  at  the  shrine  of  Mammon 
such  a  bloody  sacrifice  should  be  rendered,  by  some  of  his 
unrelenting  votaries,  is  not  to  be  wondered  at;  but,  that 
the  shrine  of  elegance  and  fashion  should  be  bathed  In 
blood  : — that  soft  and  sentimental  ladyship  should  put 
forth  her  hand  to  such  an  enormity  ; — that  she  who  can 
sigh  so  gently,  and  shed  her  graceful  tear  over  the  suffer- 
ings of  others,  should  thus  be  accessary  to  the  second  and 
more  awfid  death  of'  her  own  domestics ; — that  one,  who 
looks  the  mildest  and  loveliest  of  human  beings,  should  ex- 
act obedience  to  a  mandate  which  carries  wrath,  an!  trib- 
ulation, and  anguish  in  its  train.  Oh!  how  it  should  cm- 
firm  every  Christian  in  his  defiance  of  the  authority  : 
ion,  and  lead  him  to  spurn  at  all  its  folly  and  all  its  worth- 
lessness.  Audit  is  quite  in  vain*  to  say  that  the  servant, 
whom  you  thus  employ  as  the  deputy  of  your  falsehood, 
can  possibly  execute  the  commission  without  the  conscience 
being  at  all  tainted  or  defded  by  it ;  that  a  simple  cottage 
jnaid  can  so  sophisticate  the  matter,  as  without  any  vio- 
lence to  her  original  principles,  to  utter  the  language  of 
»vhat  she  assuredly  knows  to  be  downright  lie  ; — that 
jshe,  humble  and  untutored  soul  !  can  sustain  no  injury, 
when  thus  made  to  tamper  with  the  plain  English  of 
these  realms  ; — that  she  can  at  all  satisfy  herself  how,  by 
the  prescribed  utterance  of  "  not  at  home,"  she  is  not 
pronouncing  such  words  as  are  substantially  untrue,  but 
merely  using  them  in  another  and  perfectly  understood 
meaning; — and  which,  according  to  their  modern  transla- 
tion, denote  that  the  person,  of  whom  she  is  thus  speaking, 
securely  lurking  in  one  of  the  most  secure  and  intimate  of 
its  receptacles. 

<  You  may  try  to  darken  this  piece  of  casuistry  as  you 
will,  and  work  up  your  minds  into  the  peaceable  convic- 
tion that  it  is  all  right,  atr.l  as  it  should  be.      But,  be  very 


LIES  OF  CONVENIENCE. 


71 


How  often  have  I  pitied  the  wives  and  daughters  ol 
professional  men,  for  the  number  of  lies    which   they    are 

obliged  to  tell,  in  the  course  of  the  year  !     "  Dr.  is 

verv  sorry  ;  but  he  was  sent  for  to  a  patient  just  as  he  waa 
coming  with  me  to  your  house."—"  Papa's  compliments, 
and  he  is  very  sorry;  but  he.  was  forced  to  attend  a  corn- 
certain  that  where  the  moral  sense  of  your  domestic  is  not  nl- 
rady  overthrown,  there  is,  at  least,  one  bosom  within  which 
von  have  raised  a  war  of  doubts  and  difficulties,  and  where 
if  the  victory  be  on  your  side,  it  will  be  on  the  side  of  him 
who  is  the  great  enemy  of  righteousness. 

"  There  is,  at  least,  one  person,  along  the  line  of  this  con- 
veyance of  deceit,  who  condemneth  herself  in  that  which  she 
alloweth  ;  who,  in  the  language  ot  Paul  esteeming  the  prac- 
tice to  be  unclean,  to  her  will  it  be  unclean  ;  who  will  per- 
form her  task  with  the  offence  of  her  own  conscience,  and  to 
whom,  therefore,  it  will  indeed  be  evil;  who  cannot 
render  obedience  in  this  matter  to  her  earthly  superior, 
but,  by  an  act,  in  which  she  does  not  stand  clear  and 
unconscious  of  guilt  before  God;  and  with  whom,  there- 
fore, the  sad  consequence  of  what  we  can  call  nothing  eke 
than  a  barbarous  combination  against  the  principles  and 
prospects  of  the  lower  orders,  is — that,  as  she  has  not 
cleaved  fully  unto  the  Lord,  and  has  not  kept  by  the  ser- 
vice of  the  one  Master,  and  has  not  forsaken  all  but  liis 
bidding,  she  cannot  be  the  disciple  of  Christ. 

"  And  let  us  just  ask  a  master  or  mistress,  who  can  thus 
make  free  with  the  moral  principle  of  their  servants  in  one 
instance,  how  they  can  look  for  pure  or  correct  principles 
from  them  in  other  instances  1  What  right  have  they  to 
complain  of  unfaithfulness  against  themselves,  who  have 
deliberately  seduced  another  into  a  habit  of  unfaithfulness 
against  God  1  Are  they  so  utterly  unskilled  in  the  miste- 
ries  of  our  nature,  as  not  to  perceive  that  the  servant 
whom  you  have  taught  to  lie,  has  gotten  such  rudiments 
of  education  at  your  hand,  as  that,  without,  any  further 
help,  he  can  now  teach  himself  to  purloin  1 — and  ye* 
nothing  more  frequent  than  loud  and  angry  compiain- 
ings  against  the  treachery  of  servants  ;  as  if  in  the  general 
wreck  of  their  other  principles,  a  principle  of  considera- 


72  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LUNG. 

mission  Qf  bankruptcy ;  but  will  certainly  come,  if  he  can, 
by-and-by,"  when  the  chances  are,  that  the  physician  is 
enjoying  himself  over  his  hook  and  his  fire,  and  the  lawyer 
also,  congratulating  themselves  on  having  escaped  that  ter- 
rible bore,  a  party,  at  the  expence  of  teaching  their  wife,  or 
daughter,  or  son,  to  tell  what  they  call,  a  white  lie  !  But,  I 
would  ask  those  fathers,  and  those  mothers  who  make 
their  children  the  bearers  of  similar  excuses,  whether  af- 
ter giving  them  such  commissions,  they  could  conscien- 
tiously resent  any  breach  of  veracity,  or  breach  of  confi- 
dence, or  deception,  committed  by  their  children  in  mat- 
ters of  more  importance.  "  Ce  n'est  que  le  premier  pas 
qui  coute,"  says  the  proverb  ;  and  I  believe  that  habitu- 
al, permitted,  and  encouraged  lying,  in  little  and  seemingly 
unimportant    things,  leads  to  want  of  truth  and  principle 

tion  of  the  good  and  interest  of  their  employer,  and  who 
has  at  the  same  time  been  their  seducer,  was  to  survive 
in  all  its  power  and  sensibility.  It  is  just  such  a  retribu- 
tion as  was  to  be  looked  for.  It  is  a  recoil,  upon  their 
own  heads,  of  the  mischief  which  they  themselves  have 
originated.  It  is  the  temporal  part  of  the  punishment 
which  they  have  to  bear  for  the  sin  of  our  text;  but  not 
the  whole  of  it  :  far  better  for  them  both  that  both  per- 
son and  property  were  cast  into  the  sea,  than  that  they 
phould  stand  the  reckoning  of  that  day,  when  called  to 
give  an  account  of  the  souls  that  they  have  murdered,  and 
the  blood  of  so  mighty  a  destruction  is  required  at  their 
hands." 


These  remarks  at  first  made  part  of  a  chapter  on  the 
lie  of  convenience,  but  thinking  them  not  suited  to  that 
period  of  my  work,  I  took  them  out  again,  and  not  being 
able  to  introduce  them  in  any  subsequent  chapter,  because 
they  treat  of  one  particular  lie,  and  not  of  lying  in  gene- 
ral, I  have  been  obliged  to  content  myself  with  putting  them 
in  a  note* 


LIES  OF  CONVENIENCE.  73 

in  great  and  serious  matters  ;  for  when  the  barrier,  or  res- 
trictive principle,  is  once  thrown  down,  no  one  can  say 
where  a  stop  will  be  put  to  the  inroads  and  the  destruc- 
tion. 

I  forgot  in  the  first  edition  of  my  work,  to  notice  one 
falsehood  which  is  only  too  often  uttered  by  young  wom- 
en in  a  ball-room  ;  but  I  shall  now  mention  it  with  due 
reprehensions,  though  I  scarcely  know  under  what 
head  toclass  it.  I  think,  however,  that  it  may  be  named 
without  impropriety,  one  of  the  Lies  of  Conve- 
nience. 

But,  I  cannot  do  better  than  give  an  extract  on  this 
subject,  from  a  letter  addressed  to  me  by  a  friend,  on  read- 
ing this  book,  in  which  she  has  had  the  kindness  to  praise, 
and  the  still  greater  kindness  to  admonish  me.*  She  says, 
as  follows  : — "  One  falsehood  that  is  very  often  uttered  by 
the  lips  of  youth,  I  trust  not  without  a  blush  you  have  pas- 
sed unnoticed  ;  and,  as  I  always  considered  it  no  venial 
one,  I  will  take  the  present  opportunity  of  poinding  out 
its  impropriety.  A  young  lady,  when  asked  by  a  gentle- 
man to  dance,  whom  she  does  not  approve,  will,  without 
hesitation,  say,  though  unprovided  with  any  other  partner, 
"  If  I  dance  I  am  engaged  ;''  this  positive  untruth  is  cal- 
culated to  wound  the  feelings  of  the  person  to  whom  it  is 
addressed,  for  it  generally  happens  that  such  person  dis- 
covers he  has  been  deceived,  as  well  as  rejected.  It  is  very 
seldom  that  young  men,  to  whom  it  would  really  be  im- 
proper that  a  lady  should  give  her  hand  for  the  short  time 
occupied  in  one  or  two  dances,  are  admitted  into  our  pub- 
lic places  ;  but,  in  such  a  case,  could  not  a  reference  be 
made  by  her,  to  any  friends  who  are  present ;  pride  and 
vanity  too  often  prompt  the  refusal,  and,  because  the  offer- 
ed partner  has  not  sufficiently  sacrificed  to  the  graces,  is 
little  versed  "  in  the  poetry  of  motion,"  or  derives  no  conse- 

*  Vide  a  (printed)  letter  addressed  "  to  Mrs.  Opie, 
with  observations  on  her  recent  publication,"  "  Illustra- 
tions of  Lying  in  all  its  Branches."  The  authoress  is 
Susan  Reeve,  wife  of  Dr.  Reeve,  M.  D.,  and  daughter 
of  E.  Bonhote  of  Bungay,  authoress  of  many  interesting 
publications. 


74  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

quence  from  the  possession  of  rank,  or  riches,  he  is  heat- 
ed with  what  he  must  feel  to  be  contempt.  True  polite- 
ness, which  has  its  seat  in  the  heart,  would  scorn  thus  to 
wound  another,  and  the  real  votaries  of  sincerity  would 
never  so  violate  its  rules  to  escape  a  temporary  mortifica- 

I  shall  only  add,  that  I  have  entire  unity  of  sentiment 
with  the  foregoing  extract. 

Here  I  beg  leave  to  insert  a  short  Tale,  illustrative  of 
Lies  of  Convenience. 


PROJECTS  DEFEATED. 

There  are  a  great  many  match-makers  in  the  world; 
beings  who  dare  to  take  on  themselves  the  fearful  respon- 
sibility of  bringing  two  persons  together  into  that  solemn 
union  which  only  death  or  guilt  can  dissolve;  and  thus 
make  themselves  answerable  for  the  possible  misery  of  two 
of  their  fellow-creatures. 

One  of  these  busy  match-makers,  a  gentleman  named 
Byrome,  was  very  desirous  that  Henry  Sandford,  a  rela- 
tion of  his,  should  become  a  married  man  ;  and  he  called 
one  morning  to  inform  him  that  he  had  at  length  met  with 
a  young  lady  who  would,  he  flattered  himself,  suit  him  in 
all  respects  as  a  wife.  Henry  Sanford  was  not  a  man  of 
many  words  ;  nor  had  he  a  high  opinion  of  Byrome's  judg 
ment.  He  therefore  only  said,  in  reply,  that  he  was  wil- 
ling to  accompany  his  relation  to  the  lady's  house,  where, 
on  Byrome's  invitation,  he  found  that  he  was  expected  to 
drink  tea. 

The  young  lady  in  question,  whom  I  shall  call  Lydia 

L ,  lived  with  her  widowed  aunt,  who  had  brought  her 

and  her  sisters  up,  and  supplied  to  them  the  place  of  par- 
ents, lost  in  their  infancy.  She  had  bestowed  on  them  an 
expensive  and  showy  education ;  had,  both  by  precept  and 


PROJECTS  DEFEATED.  15 

example,  given  every  worldly  polish  to  their  manners;  and 
had  taught  them  to  set  off  their  beauty  by  tasteful  and  fash- 
ionable dress  : — that  is,  she  had  done  for  them  all  that  she 
thought  was  necessary  to  be  done  ;  and  she,  as  well  as  By- 
rome,  believed  that  they  possessed  every  requisite  to  make 
the  marriage  state  happy. 

But  Henry  Sandford  was  not  so  easy  to  please.  He 
valued  personal  beauty  and  external  accomplishments 
far  below  christian  graces  and  moral  virtues  ;  and  was  re- 
solved never  to  unite  himself  to  a  woman  whose  conduct 
was  not  entirely  under  the  guidance  of  a  strict  religious 
principle. 

Lydia  L was  not  in  the  room  when  Sandford  "arriv- 
ed, but  he  very  soon  had  cause  to  doubt  the  moral  integri- 
ty of  her  aunt  and  sisters  ;  for,  on  Byrome's  saying,  "I 
hope  you  are  not  to  have  any  company  but  ourselves  to- 
day,*' the  aunt  replied.  "  Oh,  no  ;  we  put  off  some  com- 
pany that  we  expected,  because  we  thought  you  would  like 
to  be  alone  ;"    and  one  of  the  sisters  added,  "  Yes  ;  I 

wrote  to  the  disagreeable  D s,  informing  them  that  my 

aunt  was  too  unwell,  with  one  of  her  bad  headaches,- to  see 
company  ;"    u  and   I,"  said  the  other,  "  called  on   the 

G s,  and  said  that  we  wished  them  to  come  another 

day,  because  the  beaux,  whom  they  liked  best  to  meet 
were  engaged." — "  Admirable  !"  cried  Byrome,  "  Let 
women  alone  for  excuses  !"  while  Sandford  looked  grave, 
and  wondered  how  any  one  could  think  admirable  what  to 
him  appeared  so  reprehensible.  "  However,"  thought  he, 
"  Lydia  had  no  share  in  this  treachery  and  white  lying, 
but  may  dislike  them,  as  I  do."  .  Soon  after  she  made  her 
appearance,  attired  for  conquest ;  and  so  radiant  did 
she  seem  in  her  youthful  loveliness  and  grace,  that  Sand- 
ford earnestly  hoped  she  had  better  principles  than  her 
sisters. 

Time  fled  on  rapid  wings ;  and  Byrome  and  the  two 
elder  sisters  frequently  congratulated  each  other  that  "  the 

disagreeable  D s  and  tiresome  G s"  had  not  been 

allowed  to  come,  and  destroy,  as  they  would  have  done, 
the  pleasure  of  the  afternoon.  But  Lydia  did  not  join  in 
this  conversation ;  and  Sandford  was  glad  of  it.  The 
hours  passed  in  alternate  music  and  conversation,  and  also 


*78  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

in  looking  over  some  beautiful  drawings  of  Lydia's  ;  but 
the  evening  was  to  conclude  with  a  French  game  a  jeu-de- 
sociiU  which  Sandford  was  acquainted  with,  and  which 
would  give  Lydia  an  opportunity  of  telling  a  story  grace- 
fu'ly. 

The  L s  lived  in  a  pleasant  village  near  the  town 

where  Sandford  and  Byrome  resided  ;  and  a  long  evenue 
of  fine  trees  led  to  their  door  ;  when,  just  as  the  aunt  was 
pointing  out  their  beauty  to  Sandford  she  exclaimed, "  Oh 
dear,  girls,  what  shall  we  do  1  there  is  Mrs.  Carthew  now 
entering  the  avenue  !  Not  at  home,  John  !  not  at  home  !" 
she  eagerly  vociferated.  "  My  dear  aunt,  that  will  not  do 
for  her,"  cried  the  eldest  sister  ;  for  she  will  ask  for  us  all 
in  turn,  and  inquire  where  we  are,  that  she  may  go  after 
us." — "  True,"  said  the  other,  "  and  if  we  admit  her,  she 
is  so  severe  and  methodistical,  that  she  will  spoil  all  our 
enjoyment."  "  However,  in  she  must  come,"  observed 
the  aunt ;  "  for,  as  she  is  an  old  friend,  I  should  not  like 
to  affront  her." 

Sandford  was  just  going  to  say,  "  If  she  be  an  old  friend, 
admit  her,  by  all  means;"  when  on  looking  at  Lydia, who 
had  been  silent  all  this  time,  and  was,  he  flattered  himself, 
of  his  way  of  thinking  he  saw  her  put  her  finger  archly  to 
her  nose,  and  heard  her  exclaim,  "  I  have  it  !  there,  there  ; 
go  all  of  you  into  the  next  room,  and  close  the  door  !"  she 
then  bounded  gracefully  down  the  avenue,  while  Sandford, 
with  a  degree  of  pain  which  he  could  have  scarcely  thought 

Ejssible,  heard  one  of  the  sisters  say  to  Byrome,  "  Ah  ! 
ydia  is  to  be  trusted  ;  she  tells  a  white  lie  with  such  an 
innocent  look,  that  no  one  can  suspect  her."  "  What  a 
valuable  accomplishment,"  thought  Sandford,  "in  a  woman! 
what  a  recommendation  in  a  wife  !"  and  he  really  dread- 
ed the  fair  deceiver's  return. 

She  came  back,  "  nothing  doubting,"  and,  smiling  with 
great  self-complacency,  said,  "  It  was  very  fortunate  that 
it  was  I  who  met  her  ;  for  I  have  more  presence  of  mind 
than  you,  my  dear  sisters.     The  good  soul  had  seen  the 

D s ;  and  hearing  my  aunt  was  ill,  came  to  inquire 

concerning  her.  She  was  even  coming  on  to  the  house,  as 
ehe  saw  no  reason  why  she  should  not ;  and  I,  for  a  mo- 
ment, was  at  a  loss  how  to  keep  her  away,  when  I  luckily 


PROJECTS  DEFEATED.  77 

recollected  her  great  dread  of  infection,  and  told  her  that, 
as  the  typhus  fever  was  in  the  village,  I  feared  it  was  only 
too  possible  that  ray  poor  aunt  had  caught  it !" — "  Capi- 
tal !"  cried  the  aunt  and  Byrorae !  "  Really,  Lydia,  that 
was  even  out-doing  yourself,"  cried  her  eldest  sister. 
"  Poor  Carthewy  !  I  should  not  wonder,  if  she  came  at  all 
near  the  house,  that  she  went  home,  and  took  to  her  bed 
from  alarm  !" 

Even  Byrome  was  shocked  at  this  unfeeling  speech  ;  and 
could  not  help  observing,  that  it  would  be  hard  indeed  if 
such  was  the  result,  to  a  good  old  friend,  of  an  affectionate 
inquiry.  "  True,"  replied  Lydia,  "  and  I  hope  and  trust 
she  will  not  really  suffer ;  but,  though  very  good,  she  is 
very  troublesome  ;  and  could  we  but  keep  up  the  hum  for 
a  day  or  two,  it  would  be  such  a  comfort  to  us  !  as  she 
comes  very  often,  and  now  cannot  endure  cards,  or  any  mu- 
sic, but  hymn-singing." 

11  Then  I  am  glad  she  was  not  admitted ;"  said  By- 
rome, who  saw  with  pain,  by  Sandford's  folded  arms  and 
grave  countenance,  that  a  change  in  his  feelings  towards 
Lydia  had  taken  place.  Nor  was  he  deceived  : — Sandford 
was  indeed  gazing  intently,  but  not  as  before,  with  almost 
overpowering  admiration,  on  the  consciously-blushing  ob- 
ject of  it.  No;  he  was  likening  her,  as  he  gazed,  to  the 
beautiful  apples  that  are  said  to  grow  on  the  shores  of  the 
Dead  Sea,  which  tempt  the  traveller  to  pluck,  and  eat,  but 
are  filled  only  with  dust  and  bitter  ashes. 

"  But  we  are  loosing  time,"  said  Lydia  ;  "  let  us  begin 
our  French  game  !"  Sandford  coldly  bowed  assent ;  but 
he  knew  not  what  she  said  ;  he  was  so  inattentive,  that  he 
had  to  forfeit  continually ; — he  spoke  not ; — he  smiled  not ; 
— except  with  a  sort  of  sarcastic  expression  ;  and  Lydia 
felt  conscious  that  she  had  lost  him,  though  she  knew  not 
why ;  for  her  moral  sense  was  too  dull  for  her  to  conceive 
the  effect  which  her  falsehood,  and  want  of  feeling,  to- 
wards an  old  pious  friend,  had  produced  on  him.  This 
consciousness  was  a  painful  one,  as  Sandford  was  hand- 
some, sensible,  and  rich  ;  therefore,  he  w;is  what  match- 
seeking  girls  (odious  vulgarity  !)  call  a  good  catch.  Be- 
sides, Byrome  had  told  her  that  she  might  depend  on  mak- 
ing a  conquest  of  his  relation,  Hanry  Sandford.     The 


78  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF    LYING. 

evening,  therefore,  which  began  so  brightly  ended  in  pain 
and  mortification,  both  to  Saadford  and  Lydia.  The  for- 
mer was  impatient  to  depart  as  soon  as  supper  was  over, 
and  the  latter,  piqued,  disappointed,  and  almost  dejected, 
did  not  join  her  sisters  in  soliciting  him  to  stay. 

**  Well,"  said  Byrome,  as  soon  as  they  left  the  house, 
"  How  do  you  like  the  beautiful  accomplished  Lydia  V— 
"  She  is  beautiful  and  accomplished  ;  but  that  is  all."— 
"  Nay,  I  am  sure  you  seemed  to  admire  her  exceedingly, 
till  just  now,  and  paid  her  more  animated  attention  than 
I  ever  saw  you  pay  any  woman  before." — "  True  ;  but  I 
soon  found  that  she  was  as  hollow-hearted  as  she  is  fair." 
— "  Oh  !  1  suppose  you  mean  the  deception  which  she 
practised  on  the  old  lady.  Well  ;  where  was  the  great 
harm  of  that  %  she  only  told  a  white  lie  ;  and  nobody,  that 
is  not  a  puritan,  scruples  to  do  that,  you  know." 

"  I  am  no  puritan,  as  you  term  it ;  yet  I  scruple  it  ; 
but,  if  I  were  to  be  betrayed  into  such  meanness,  (and  no 
one  perhaps  can  be  always  on  his  guard,)  I  should  blush 
to  have  it  known  ;  but  this  girl  seemed  to  glory  in  her 
shame,  and  to  be  proud  ot  the  disgraceful  readiness  with 
which  she  uttered  her  falsehood." — "  I  must  own  that  I 
was  surprised  she  did  not  express  some  regret  at  being 
forced  to  do  what  she  did,  in  order  to  prevent  our  pleasure 
from  being  spoiled." — "  Why  should  she  1  Like  yourself 
she  saw  no  harm  in  a  white  lie  ;  but,  mark  me,  Byrome, 
the  woman  whom  I  marry  shall  not  think  theie  is  such  a 
thing  as  a  white  lie  ; — she  shall  think  all  lies  black  ;  be- 
cause the  intention  of  all  lies  is  to  deceive  ;  and,  from  the 
highest  authority,  we  are  forbidden  to  deceive  one  another. 
I  assure  you,  that  if  I  were  married  to  Lydia,  I  should  dis- 
trust her  expressions  of  love  towards  me  ; — I  should  sus- 
pect that  she  married  my  fortune,  not  me  ;  and  that,  when- 
ever strong  temptation  offered,  she  would  deceive  ine  as 
readily  as,  for  a  very  slight  one  indeed,  she  deceived  that 
kind  friend  who  came  on  an  errand  of  love,  and  was  sent 
away  alarmed,  and  anxious,  by  this  young  hypocrite's  un- 
blushing falsehood  ! — Trust  me,  Byrome,  that  my  wife 
shall  be  a  strict  moralist." — "  What !  a  moral  philoso- 
pher 1" — "  No ;  a  far  better  thing.  She  shall  be  a  hum- 
ble relying  christian  i — thence  she  will  be  capable  of 


THE  SKREEN.  79 

speaking  the  truth,  even  to  her  own  condemnation  ; — and, 
on  all  occasion*,  her  fear  of  man  will  be  wholly  subservient 
toher  fe;ir  of  her  Creator." 

"And,  pray,  how  can  you  ever  be  able  to  assure  your- 
self that  any  girl  is  th'ts  paragon  V — "  Surely,  if  what  we 

call  chance  could  so  easily  exhibit   to  me  Lydia in  all 

the  ugliness  of  her  falsehood,  it  may  equally,  one  day  or 
other,  disclose  to  me  some  other  girl  in  all  the  beaucy  of 
her  truth.  Till  then  I  hope  I  shall  have  resolution  enough 
to  remain  a  bachelor." — "  Then,"  replied  Byrome,  shak- 
ing his  head,  "  I  must  bid  you  good  night,  an  old  bachelor 
in  prospect  and  in  perpetuity  !"  Ami  as  he  returned  his 
farewell,  Sandford  sighed  to  think  that  his  prophecy  was 
only  too  likely  to  be  fulfilled;  since  his  observation  had 
convinced  him  that  a  strict  adherence  to  truth,  on  little  as 
well  as  on  great  occasions,  is,  though  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant, the  rarest  of  all  virtues." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ON   LIES  OF  INTEREST. 

These  lies  are  various,  and  are  more  excusable,  and  less 
offensive,  than  many  others. 

The  pale  ragged  beggar,  who,  to  add  to  the  effect  of  his 
or  her  ill  looks  tells  of  the  large  family  which  does  not  ex- 
ist, has  a  strong  motive  to  deceive  in  the  penury  which 
does  ; — and  one  cannot  consider  as  a  very  abandoned  liar, 
the  tradesman,  who  tells  you  he  cannot  afford  to  come 
down  to  the  price  which  you  offer,  because  he  gave  almost 
as  much  for  the  goods  himself.  It  is  not  from  persons  like 
these  that  we  meet  with  the  most  disgusting  marks  of 
interested  falsehood.  It  is  when  habitual  and  petty  ly- 
ing profanes  the  lips  of  those  whom  independence  pre- 


80  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

serve  from  any  strong  temptation  to  violate  truth,  and 
whom  religion  and  education  might  have  taught  to  val- 
ue it. 

The  following  story  will  illustrate  the  Lies  of  Inter- 
est. 


THE  SKREEN,  or  "  NOT  AT  HOME." 

Th  e  widow  of  Governer  Atheling  returned  from  the 
East  Indies,  old,  rich,  and  childless  ;  and  as  she  had  none 
but  very  distant  relations,  her  affections  naturally  turned 
towards  the  earliest  friends  of  her  youth  ;  one  of  whom 
she  found  still  living,  and  residing  in  a  large  country-town. 
She  therefore  hired  a  house  and  grounds  adjacent,  in  a 
village  very  near  to  that  lady's  abode,  and  became  not  on- 
ly her  frequent  but  welcome  guest.  This  old  friend  was  a 
widow  in  narrow  circumstances,  with  four  daughters  slen- 
derly provided  for  }  and  she  justly  concluded  that,  if  she 
and  bet  family  could  endear  themselves  to  their  opulent 
guest,  they  should  in  all  probability  inherit  some  of  her 
property.  In  the  meanwhile,  as  she  never  visited  them 
without  bringing  with  her,  in  great  abundance,  whatever 
was  wanted  for  the  table,  and  might  therefore  be  said  to 
contribute  to  their  maintenance,  without  seeming  to  intend 
to  do  so,  they  took  incessant  pains  to  conciliate  her  more 
and  more  every  day,  by  flatteries  which  she  did  not  see 
through,  and  attentions  which  she  deeply  felt.  Still,  the 
Livingstones  were  not  in  spirit  united  to  their  amiable 
guest.  The  sorrows  of  her  heart  had  led  her,  by  slow  de- 
grees, to  seek  refuge  in  a  religious  course  of  life ;  and, 
spite  of  her  proneness  to  self-deception,  she  could  not  con- 
ceal from  herself  that,  on  this  important  subject,  the  Liv- 
ingstones had  never  thought  seriously,  and  were,  as  yet, 
entirely  women  of  the  world.  But  still  her  heart  longed 
to  be  attached  to  something ;  and  as  her  starved  af- 
fections  craved  some   daily  food,  she    suffered    herself 


THE    SKREEN.  81 

to  love  this  plausible,  amusing,  agreeable,  anil  seem- 
ingly-affectionate family  ;  anil  she  every  day  lived  in  hope, 
that,  by  her  precepts  and  example,  she  should  ultimately 
tear  them  from  that  "  world  they  loved  too  well."  Sweet 
and  precious  to  their  own  souls,  are  the  illusions  of 
the  good  ;  and  the  deceived  East-Indian  was  happy,  be- 
cause she  did  not  understand  the  true  nature  of  the  Living- 
6tones. 

On  the  contrary,  so  fascinated  was  she  by  what  she  fan- 
cied they  were,  or  might  become,  that  she  took  very  little 
notice  of  a  shame-faced,  awkward,  retiring,  silent  girl,  the 
only  child  of  the  dearest  friend  that  her  childhood  and  her 
youth  had  known, — and  who  had  been  purposely  introduc 
ed  to  her  only  as  Fanny  Barnwell.  For  the  Living 
stones  were  too  selfish,  and  too  prudent,  to  let  their  rich 
friend  know  that  this  poor  girl  was  the  orphan  of  Fanny 
Beaumont.  JVithholding,  therefore,  the  most  impor- 
tant part  of  the  truth,  they  only  informed  her  that  Fanny 
Barnwell  was  an  orphan,  who  was  glad  to  live  amongst 
her  friends,  that  she  might  make  her  small  income  suffi- 
cient for  her  wants  ;  taking  care  not  to  add  that  she  was 
mistaken  in  supposing  that  Fanny  Beaumont,  whose  long 
silence  and  subsequent  death  she  had  bitterly  deplored, 
had  died  childless;  for  that  she  had  married  a  second  hus- 
band, by  whom  she  had  the  poor  orphan  in  question,  and 
had  lived  many  years  in  sorrow  and  obscurity,  the  result 
of  this  imprudent  marriage;  resolving,  however,  in  order 
to  avoid  accidents,  that  Fanny's  visit  should  not  be  of  long 
duration.  In  the  mean  while,  they  confided  in  the  securi- 
ty afforded  them  by  what  may  be  called  their  passive 
HE  of  interest.  But,  in  order  to  make  "assurance 
doubly  sure,"  they  had  also  recourse  to  the  active  lie  of 
interest  ;  and,  in  order  to  frighten  Fanny  from  ever 
daring  to  inform  their  visitor  that  she  was  the  child  of 
Fanny  Beaumont,  they  assured  her  that  that  lady  was  so 
enraged  against  her  poor  mother,  for  having  married  her 
unworthy  father  that  no  one  dared  to  mention  her  name  to 
Iter;  because  it  never  failed  to  draw  from  her  the  most 
violent  abuse  of  her  once  dearest  friend.  "  And  you  know, 
Fanny,"  they  took  care  to  add,  "  That  you  could  not  bear 
to  hear  your  poor  mother  abused." — "No;  that  I  coukl 
F 


82  ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    LYING. 

not,  indeed,"  was  the  weeping  girl's  answer  ;  the  Living- 
stones therefore  felt  safe  and  satisfied.  However,  it  still 
might  not  be  amiss  to  make  the  old  lady  dislike  Fanny,  if 
they  could ;  they  contrived  to  render  the  poor  girl's  virtue 
the  means  of  doing  her  injury. 

Fanny's  mother  could  not  bequeath  much  money  to  her 
child;  but  she  had  endeavoured  to  enrich  her  with  princi- 
ples and  piety.  Above  all,  she  had  impressed  her  with  the 
strictest  regard  for  truth  ; — and  the  Livingstones  artfully 
contrived  to  make  her  integrity  the  means  of  displeasing 
their  East-India  friend. 

This  good  old  lady's  chief  failing  was  believing  impli- 
citly what  ever  was  said  in  her  commendation  :  not  that 
she  loved  flattery,  but  that  she  liked  to  believe  she  had 
conciliated  good-will  ;  and  being  sincere  herself,  she  nev- 
er thought  of  distrusting  the  sincerity  of  others. 

Nor  was  she  at  all  vain  of  her  once  fine  person,  and  finer 
face,  or  improperly  fond  of  dress.  Still,  from  an  almost 
pitiable  degree  of  bonhommie,  she  allowed  the  Living- 
stones to  dress  her  as  they  liked  ;  and,  as  they  chose  to 
make  her  wear  fashionable  and  young-looking  attire,  in 
which  they  declared  that  she  looked  "  so  handsome  !  and 
so  well  !"  slie  believed  they  were  the  best  judges  of  what 
was  proper  for  her,  and  always  replied,  "  Well,  dear 
friends,  it  is  entirely  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me ;  so 
dress  me  as  you  please ;"  while  the  Livingstones,  not 
believing  that  it  was  a  matter  of  indifference,  used 
to  laugh,  as  soon  as  she  was  gone,  at  her  obvious  credulity. 

But  this  ungenerous  and  treacherous  conduct  excited 
kucIi  strong  indignation  in  the  usually  gentle  Fanny,  that 
she  could  not  help  expressing  her  sentiments  concerning 
it ;  and  by  that  means  made  them  the  more  eager  to  be- 
tray her  into  offending  their  unsuspicious  friend.  They 
therefore  asked  Fanny,  in  her  presence,  one  day,  whether 
tlieir  dear  guest  did  not  dress  most  becomingly  ? 

The  poor  girl  made  sundry  sheepish  and  awkward 
contortions,  now  looking  down,  and  then  looking  up ; — 
unable  to  lie,  yet  afraid  tell  the  truth. — "  Why  do  you  not 
reply,  Fanny  V'  said  the  artful  questioner.  "  Is  she  not 
well  dressed  V — "  Not  in  my  opinion,"  faultered  out  the 
distressed  girl,     "  And,  pray,  Miss  Barnwell,"  saidj  the 


THE    SKREE.V.  83 

old  lady,  "  what  part  of  my  dress  do  von  disapprove  V 
After  a  pause,  Fanny  look  courage  to  reply,  "  all  of  it, 
madam. " — "  Why  {  do  yoii  think  it  loo  young  for  me  1" 
— "  1  do." — "  A  plain-spoken  young  person  that  !"  she 
observed  in  a  tone  of  pique  ; — while  lite  Livingstones  ex- 
claimed, "impertinent!  ridiculous  !" — and  Fanny  was 
glad  to  leave  the  room,  feeling  excessive  pain  at  having 
been  forced  to  wound  the  feelings  of  one  whom  she  wished 
to  be  permitted  to  love,  because  she  had  once  been  her 
mother's  dearest  friend.  After  this  scene,  the  Livingstones, 
partly  from  the  love  of  mischief,  and  partly  from  the  love 
of  fun,  used  to  put  similar  questions  to  Fanny,  in  the  old 
lady's  presence,  till,  at  last,  displeased  an.i  indignant  at 
her  bluutness  and  ill-breeding,  she  scarcely  noticed  or 
spoke  to  her.  In  the  meanwhile,  Cecilia  Livingstone 
became  an  object  of  increasing  interest  to  her  ;  for 
.•die  had  a  lover  to  whom  she  was  greatly  attached  ;  but 
who  would  not  be  in  a  situation  to  marry  for  many  years. 

This  young  man  was  frequently  at  the  house,  and  was 
as  polite  and  attentive  to  the  old  lady,  when  she  was  pre- 
sent, as  the  rest  of  the  family  ;  but,  like  them,  he  was  ever 
ready  to  indulge  in  a  laugh  at  her  credulous  simplicity,  and 
especially  at  her  continually  expres^iag  Lei  belief,  as  well 
as  her  hopes,  that  they  weie  all  beginning  to  think  less  of 
tne  present  woriJ,  and  more  of  the  next ;  and  as  Alfred 
Lawrie,  Cecilia's  lover,  as  well  as  the  Livingstones,  pos- 
sessed no  inconsiderable  power  of  inimickry,  they  exercis- 
ed them  with  great  eli'ect  on  the  wanner  and  tones  of  her 
whom  they  called  the  over-dressed  saint,  unrestrained, 
alas  !  by  the  consciousness  that  she  was  their  present,  and 
Would,  as  they  expected,  be  their  future,  benefactress. 

That  confiding  and  unsuspecting  being  was,  meanwhile, 
considering  that  though  her  health  was  injured  by  a  long 
residence  in  a  warm  climate,  she  might  still  live  many 
years;  and  that,  as  Cecilia  might  not  therefore  possess 
the  fortune  which  she  had  bequeathed  to  her  till  "  youth 
and  genial  years  were  down,'  it  would  be  better  to  give  it 
to  her  during  her  lifetime.  "  I  will  do  so,"  she  said  to  her- 
self (tears  roshiog  into  her  eyes  as  the  thought  of  the  hap- 


84  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYING. 

pinecs  which  she  was  going  to  impart,)  "  and  then  the 
young  people  can  marry  directly  !" 

She  took  this  resolution  one  day  when  the  Livingstones 
believed  that  she  had  left  her  home  on  a  visit.  Conse- 
quently, having  no  expectation  of  seeing  her  for  some 
time,  they  had  taken  advantage  of  her  long  vainly-expected 
absence  to  make  some  engagements  which  they  "knew  she 
would  have  excessively  disapproved.  But  though  as  yet, 
they  knew  it  not,  the  old  lady  had  been  forced  to  "put 
off  her  visit  ;  a  circumstance  which  she  did  not  at  all  re- 
gret, as  it  enabled  her  to  go  sooner  on  her  benevolent  er- 
rend. 

The  engagement  of  the  Livingstones  for  that  day  was  a 
rehersal  of  a  private  play  at  their  house,  which  they  were 
afterwards,  and  during  their  saintly  friend's  absence,  to 
perform  at  the  house  of  a  friend  ;  and  a  large  room,  called 
the  library,  in  which  there  was  a  wide,  commodious  skreen, 
was  selected  as  the  scene  of  action. 

Fanny  Barnwell,  who  disliked  private  and  other  thea- 
tricals as  much  as  their  old  friend  herself,  was  to  have  no 
part  in  the  performance ;  but,  as  they  wer2  disappointed 
in  their  prompter  that  evening,  she  was,  though  with  great 
difficulty,  persuaded  to  perform  the  office,  for  that  night 
only. 

It  was  to  be  a  dress  rehersal  ;  and  the  parties  were  in 
the  midst  of  adorning  themselves,  when  to  their  great  con- 
sternation, they  saw  their  supposed  distant  friend  coming 
up  the  street,  and  evidently  intending  them  a  visit.  What 
was  to  be  done  1  To  admit  her  was  impossible.  They 
therefore  called  up  a  new  servant,  who  only  came  to  them 
the  day  before,  who  did  not  know  the  worldly  consequence 
of  their  unwelcome  guest  :  and  Cecilia  said  to  her,  "  you 
see  that  old  lady  yonder  ;  when  she  knocks,  be  sure  you 
say  that  we  are  not  at  home  ;  and  you  had  better  add, 
that  we  shall  not  be  home  till  bed-time  ;"  thus  adding 
the  lie  of  convenience  to  other  deceptions.  Accor- 
dingly, when  she  knocked  at  the  door,  the  girl  spoke  as 
she  was  desired  to  do,  or  rather  she  improved  upon  it ;  for 
she  said  that  "  her  iadies  had  been  out  all  day,  and  would 
not  return  till  two  o'clock  in  the  morning." — "  Indeed  ! 
that  is  unfortunate;"  said  their  disappointed  visitor,  stop- 


Tiir,  sKiiEE:;.  85 

pieg  to  deliberate  whether  she  should  not  leave  a  note 
of  agreeable  surprise  for  Cecilia  ;  but  the  girl,  who  held 
the  door  in  her  band,  seemed  so  impatient  to  get  rid  of 
her,  that  she  resolved  not  to  write,  and  then  turned  away. 

The  girl  was  really  in  haste  to  return  to  the  kitchen  ; 
for  she  was  gossiping  with  an  old  fellow-servant.  She 
therefore  neglected  to  go  hack  to  her  anxiona  employers  ; 
but  Cecilia  ran  down  the  back  stairs,  to  interrogate  her, 
exclaiming,  "  Well  ;  what  did  -she  say  1  I  hope  she  did 
not  suspect  that  we  were  at  home." — "  No,  to  be  sure 
not,  Miss  ; — how  should  she  1 — for  I  said  even  more  than 
you  told  me  to  say,"  repeating  her  additions  ;  being  eager 
to  prove  her  claim  to  the  confidence  of  her  new  mistress. 
"  But  are  you  sure  that  she  is  really  gone  from  the  door  V 
— "  To  be  sure,  Miss." — (i  Still,  I  wish  you  could  go  and 
see  ;  because  we  have  not  seen  her  pass  the  window, 
though  we  bear']  the  door  shut.'-' — "  Dear  me,  Miss,  how 
should  you  1  for  I  looked  out  after  her,  and  I  saw  her  go 
down  the  street  under  the  windows,  and  turn  .... 
yes, — I  am  sure  that  I  saw  her  turn  into  a  shop.  How- 
ever, I  will  go  and  look,  if  you  desire  it."  She  did  so; 
and  certainly  saw  nothing  of  the  dreaded  guest.  There- 
fore, her  young  ladies  finished  their  preparations,  devoid 
of  fear.  But  the  truth  was,  that  the  girl,  little  aware  of  the 
importance  of  this  unwelcomed  lady,  and  concluding  she 
could  not  be  a  friend,  but  merely  some  troublesome  no- 
body, showed  her  contempt  and  her  anger  at  being  detain- 
ed so  long,  by  throwing  to  the  street-door  with  such  vio- 
lence, that  it  did  not  really  close  ;  and  the  old  lady,  who  had 
ordered  her  carriage  to  come  for  her  at  a  certain  hour,  and 
was  determined,  on  second  thoughts,  to  sit  down  and  wait 
for  it,  was  able  unheard,  to  push  open  the  door,  and  to  en- 
ter the  library  unperceived  ; — for  the  girl  lied  to  those  who 
bade  her  lie,  when  she  said  she  saw  her  walk  away. 

In  that  room  Mrs.  Atherling  found  a  sofa  ;  and  though 
she  wondered  at  seeing  a  large  skreen  opened  before  it,  she 
seated  herself  on  it,  aud,  being  fatigued  with  her  walk, 
soon  fell  asleep.  But  her  slumber  was  broken  un- 
pleasantly ;  for  she  heard,  as  she  awoke,  the  following 
dialogue,  on  the  entrance  of  Cecilia  and  her  lover  accom- 
oanied  by  Fanny.    '*  Well* — I  am  so  glad  we  got  rid  of 


86  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

Mrs.  Atherling  so  easily  !"  cried  Cecilia.  "  That  new 
girl  seems  apt.  Some  servants  deny  one  so  as  to  show 
one  is  at  home." — "  I  should  like  them  the  better  for  it," 
said  Fanny.  "  I  hate  to  see  any  one  ready  at  telling  a 
falsehood1.1' — "  Poor  little  conscientious  dear  !"  said  the 
lover,  mill. irking  her,  "one  would  think  the  dressed-up 
•saint  had  made  you  as  methodistical  as  herself."  "  What, 
1  suppose,  Miss  Fanny,  you  would  have  had  us  let  the  old 
quiz  in." — "  To  be  sure  I  would  ;  and  I  wonder  you  could 
be  denied  to  so  kind  a  friend. — Poor  dear  Mrs.  Atherling  ! 
bow  'hint  she  would  be,  if  she  knew  you  were  at  home  !" 
-— "  Poor  dear,  indeed  !  Do  not  be  so  affected,  Fanny. 
How  should  you  care  for  Mis  Atherling,  when  you  know 
that  she  dislikes  you  !" — "  Dislikes  me  !  Oh  yes;  I  fear 
she  tlocs  !"*-—"  I  am  sure  she  does,"  replied  Cecilia  ;  "  for 
you  are  downright  rude  to  her.  Did  you  not  say,  only  the 
day  before  yesterday,  when  she  said,  There,  Miss  Barn- 
well, I  hope  I  have  at  last  gotten  a  cap  which  you  like, — 
N«.;  I  am  sorry  to  say  ^ou  have  not  T — "  l'o  be  sure  I 
did;— I  could  not  tell  a  falsehood,  even  to  please  Mrs. 
Atherling,  though  she  was  my  own  dear  mother's  dearest 
friend."—"  Your  mother's  friend,  Fanny  1  I  never  heard 
that  before  ;"  said  the  lover.  "  Did  you  no',  know  that, 
Alfred  !"  said  Cecilia  ;  eagerly  adding,  "  but  Mrs.  Ather- 
ling does  not  know  it ;"  giving  him  a  meaning  look,  as  if 
to  say,  "  and  do  not  you  tell  her." — "  Would  she  did 
knew  it !"  said  Fanny  mournfully,  "  for  though  I  dare  not 
tell  her  so,  lest  she  should  abuse  my  poor  mother,  as  yon 
say  she  would,  Cecilia,  because  she  was  so  angry  at  her 
matsriage  with  my  misguided  father,  still,  I  think  she  would 
look  kindly  on  her  once  dear  friend's  orphan  child,  and 
like  me,  in  spite  of  my  honesty."—"  No,  no,  silly  girl ; 
honesty  is  usually  its  own  reward.  Alfred,  what  do  yon 
think  1  Our  old  friend,  who  is  not  very  penetrating,  said 
one  day  to  her,  1  suppose  you  think  my  caps  to  young  for 
me  ;  and  that  the  young  person  replied,  Yes,  madam,  I 
do."—"  And  would  do  so  again,  Cecilia ; — and  it  was  far 
more  friendly  and  kind  to  say  so  than  natter  her  on  her  dress 
as  you  do,  and  then  laugh  at  her  when  her  back  is  turned. 
I  hate  to  hear  any  one  mimicked  and  laughed  at;  and 
more  especially  my  mamma's  old  friend."-"  There,  there, 


THE    SKREEN.  87 

child  !  your  sentimentality  makes  me  sick.  But  come  ;  let 
us  begin.'' — "  Yes,"  cried  Alfred,  "  let  us  rehearse  a  little, 
before  the  rest  of  the  party  come.  I  should  like  to  hear 
Mrs.  Atherling's  exclamations,  if  she  knew  what  we  were 
doing.  She  would  say  thus  :"  ....  Here  he  gave 
a  most  accurate  representation  of  the  poor  old  lady's  voice 
and  manner,  and  her  fancied  abuse  of  private  theatricals, 
while  Cecilia  cried,  "  bravo  !  bravo  W  and  Fanny, 
"  shame  !  shame  !"  till  the  other  Livingstones,  and  the  rest 
of  the  company,  who  now  entered,  drowned  her  cry  in  their 
loud  applauses  and  louder  laughter. 

The  old  lady,  whom  surprise,  anger,  and  wounded  sen- 
sibility, had  hitherto  kept  silent  and  still  in  her  involun- 
tary hiding-place,  now  rose  up,  and  mounting  on  the  sofa, 
looked  over  the  top  of  the  skreen,  full  of  reproachful  mean- 
ing, on  the  conscious  offenders  ! 

What  a  moment,  to  them,  of  overwhelming  surprise  and 
consternation  !  The  cheeks,  flushed  with  malicious  triumph 
and  satirical  pleasure,  became  covered  with  the  deeper 
blush  of  detected  treachery,  or  pale  with  fear  of  its  conse- 
quences ; — and  the  eyes,  so  lately  beaming  with  ungener- 
ous, injurious  satisfaction,  were  now  cast,  with  painful 
shame,  upon  the  ground,  unable  to  meet  the  justly  indig- 
nant glance  of  her,  whose  kindness  they  had  repaid  with 
such  palpable  and  base  ingratitude  !  "  An  admirable  like- 
ness indeed,  Alfred  Lawrie,"  said  their  undeceived  dupe, 
breaking  her  perturbed  silence,  and  coming  down  from  her 
elevation  ;  "  but  it  will  cost  you  more  than  you  are  at  pres- 
ent aware  of. — But  who  at  thou  1"  she  added,  addressing 
Fanny  (who,  though  it  might  have  been  a  moment  of  tri- 
umph to  her,  felt  and  looked  as  if  she  had  been  a  sharer  in 
die  guilt,)  "  Who  art  thou,  my  honourable,  kind  girl  ]  And 
who  was  your  mother  1" — "  Your  Fanny  Beaumont,"  re- 
plied the  quick-feeling  orphan,  bursting  into  tears.  "  Fan- 
ny Beaumont's  child  !  and  it  was  concealed  from  me!" 
said  she,  folding  the  weeping  girl  to  her  heart.  "  But  it 
was  all  of  a  piece  ; — all  treachery  and  insincerity,  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end.  However,  I  am  undeceived  before  it 
was  to  late."  She  then  disclosed  to  the  detected  family  her 
generous  motive  for  the  unexpected  visit ;  and  declared  her 
thankiiilnes*  for  what  had  taken  place,  as  far  as  she  wm 


88  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

herself  concerned ;  though  she  could  not  but  deplore,  as  a 
christian,  the  discovered  turpitude  of  those  whom  she  had 
fondly  loved. 

"  I  have  now,"  she  continued,  "  to  make  amends  to  owe 
whom  I  have  hitherto  not  treated  kindly  ;  but  I  have  at 
length  been  enabled  to  discover  an  undeserved  friend,  amidst 

undeserved  foes My  dear  child,"  added  she, 

parting  Fanny's  dark  ringlets,  and  gazing  fearfully  in  her 
face,  "  I  must  have  been  blind,  as  well  as  blinded,  not  to 
Bee  your  likeness  to  your  dear  mother. — Will  you  live  with 
me,  Fanny,  and  be  unto  me  as  a  daughter'!" — "Oh, 
most  gladly  !"  was  the  eager  and  agitated  reply.  "  You 
artful  creature !"  exclaimed  Cecilia,  pale  with  rage  and 
mortification,  "  You  knew  very  well  that  she  was  behind 
the  skreen." — "  I  know  that  she  could  not  know  it,"  re- 
plied the  old  lady  ;  "  and  you,  Miss  Livingstone,  assert 
what  you  do  not  yourself  believe.  But  come,  Fanny,  let 
us  go  and  meet  my  carriage  ;  for,  no  doubt  your  presence 
here  is  now  as  unwelcome  as  mine."  But  Fanny  lingered, 
as  if  reluctant  to  depart.  She  could  not  bear  to  leave  the 
Livingstones  in  anger.  They  had  been  kind  to  her  ;  and 
she  would  lain  have  parted  with  them  affectionately  ;  but 
they  all  preserved  a  sullen  indignant  silence,  and  scornfully 
repelled  her  advances.—"  You  see  that  you  must  not  tar- 
ry here,  my  good  girl,"  observed  the  old  lady  smiling  ; 
"  so  let  us  depart."  They  did  so ;  leaving  the  Liv- 
ingstones and  the  lover,  not  deploring  their  fault,  but 
lamenting  their  detection  ; — lamenting  also  the  hour  when 
they  added  the  lies  of  convenience  to  their  other  decep- 
tions, and  had  thereby  enabled  their  unsuspecting  dupe  to 
detect  those  falsehoods,  the  result  of  their  avaricious  fears, 
which  may  be  justly  entitled  the  lies  of  interest. 


LTES  OF  FIRST-RATE  MALIGNITY.  89 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

LIES  OF  FIRST-RATE   MALIGNITY. 

Lies  of  first-rate  malignity  come  next  to  be 
considered  :  and  I  think  that.  I  am  right  in  asserting  that 
such  lies, — lies  intended  tvilfully  to  destroy  tne  reputation 
of  men  and  women,  to  injure  their  characters  in  public  or 
private  estimation,  and  for  ever  cloud  over  their  prospects 
in  life, — are  less  frequent  than  falsehoods  of  any  other  des- 
cription. 

Not  that  malignity  is  an  unfrequent  feeling  ;— not  that 
dislike,  or  envy,  or  jealousy,  would  not  gladly  vent  itself 
in  many  a  malignant  falsehood,  or  other  efforts  of  the  same 
kind,  against  the  peace  and  fame  of  its  often  innocent  and 
unconscious  objects  ; — but  that  the  arm  of  the  law,  in  some 
measure  at  least,  defends  reputations  :  and  if  it  should  not 
have  been  able  to  deter  the  slanderer  from  his  purpose,  it 
can  at  least  avenge  the  slandered. 

Still,  such  is  the  prevailing  tendency,  in  society,  to  prey 
on  the  reputations  of  others  (especially  of  those  who  are 
at  all  distinguished,  either  in  public  or  private  life  ;)  such 
the  propensity  to  impute  bad  motives  to  good  ac- 
tions :  so  common  the  fiendlike  pleasure  of  finding  or  im- 
agining blemishes  in  beings  on  whom  even  a  motive- judg- 
ing xoorld  in  general  gazes  with  respectful  admiration,  and 
bestows  the  sacred  tribute  of  well-earned  praise  ;  that  I 
am  convinced  there  are  many  persons,  worn  both  in 
mind  and  body  by  the  consciousness  of  being  the  objects 
of  calumnies  and  suspicions  which  they  have  it  not  in  their 
power  to  combat,  who  steal  broken-hearted  to  their  graves, 
thankful  for  the  summons  of  death,  and  hoping  to  find  ref- 
uge from  the  injustice  of  their  fellow-creatures  in  die  bosom 
of  their  God  and  Saviour. 

With  the  following  illustration  of  the  lie  of  first- 
rate  malignity  I  shall  conclude  my  observations  on  this 
subject- 


90  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF    Ll'LNG. 


THE  ORPHAN. 

There  are  persons  in  the  world  whom  circumstances  have 
so  entirely  preserved  from  intercourse  with  the  base  and 
the  malignant,  and  whose  dispositions  are  so  free  from  bit- 
terness, that  they  can  scarcely  believe  in  the  existence  of 
baseness  and  malignity.  Such  persons,  when  they  hear  of 
injuries  committed,  and  wrongs  done,  at  the  instigation  of 
the  most  trivial  and  apparently  worthless  motives,  are  apt 
to  exclaim,  "  You  have  been  imposed  upon.  No  one  could 
be  so  wicked  as  to  act  thus  upon  such  slight  grounds  ;  and 
you  are  not  relating  as  a  sober  observer  of  human  nature 
and  human  action,  but  with  the  exaggerated  view  of  a  deal- 
er in  fiction  and  romance  !"  Happy,  and  privileged  beyond 
the  ordinary  charter  of  human  beings,  are  those  who  can 
thus  exclaim ; — but  the  inhabitants  of  the  tropics  might, 
with  equal  justice,  refuse  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  that 
thing  called  snow,  as  these  unbelievers  in  the  moral  turpi- 
tude in  question  refuse  their  credence  to  anecdotes  which 
disclose  it.  All  they  can  with  propriety  assert  is,  that 
such  instances  have  not  come  under  their  cognizance. 
Yet,  even  to  those  favoured  few,  I  would  put  the  following 
questions  : — Have  you  never  experienced  feelings  of  selfish- 
ness, anger,  jealousy,  or  envy,  which,  though  habits  of  reli- 
gious and  moral  restraint  taught  you  easily  to  subdue  them, 
had  yet  troubled  you  long  enough  to  make  you  fully  sensi- 
ble of  their  existence  and  their  power  1  If  so,  is  it  not 
easy  to  believe  that  such  feelings,  when  excited  in  the  minds 
of  those  not  under  religious  and  moral  guidance  may  grow 
to  such  an  unrestrained  excess  as  to  lead  to  actions  and  lies 
of  terrible  malignity  I 

I  cannot  but  think  that  even  the  purest  and  best  of  my 
friends  must  answer  in  the  affirmative.  Still,  they  have 
reason  to  return  thanks  to  their  Creator,  that  their  lot  has 
been  cast  amongst  such  "  pleasant  places  ;"  and  that  it  is 
theirs  to  breath  an  atmosphere  impregnated  only  with  airs 
from  heaven. 

My  lot,  from  a  peculiar  train  of  circumstances,  has  beep 


THE  ORPHAN.  9  J 

somewhat  differently  cast ;  and  when  I  give  the  follow- 
ing story,  to  illustrate  a  lie  of  first-hate  malignity, 
I  do  so  with  the  certain  knowledge  that  its  foundation  ia 
truth. 


Constantia  Gordon  was  the  only  child  of  a  profession- 
al man,  of  great  eminence,  in  a  provincial  town.  Her  moth- 
er was  taken  from  her  before  she  had  attained  the  age  of 
womanhood,  but  not  before  the  wise  and  pious  precepts 
which  she  gave  her  had  taked  deep  root,  and  had  therefore 
Counteracted  the  otherwise  pernicious  effects  of  a  showy 
and  elaborate  education.  Constantia's  talents  wore  con- 
siderable; and  as  her  application  was  equal  to  them,  she 
was,  at  an  early  age,  distinguished  in  her  native  place  for 
her  learning  and  accomplishments. 

Among  the  mo?t  intimate  associates  of  her  father,  was 
a  gentleman  of  the  name  Overton  ;  a  man  of  some  talent, 
and  some  acquirement  ;  but,  as  his  pretensions  to  eminence 
were  not  as  universally  allowed  as  he  thought  that  they 
ought  to  have  been,  he  was  extremely  tenacious  of  his 
own  consequence,  excessively  envious  of  the  slightest 
successes  of  others,  while  any  dissent  from  his  dogmas 
was  an  offence  which  his  mean  soul  was  incapable  of  forgiv- 
ing- 
It  was  only  too  natural  that  Constantia,  as  she  was  the 
petted  though  not  spoiled,  child  of  a  fond  father,  and  the 
little  sun  of  the  circle  in  which  she  moved,  was,  perhaps, 
only  too  forward  in  giving  her  opinion  on  literature,  and 
on  some  other  subjects,  which  are  not  usually  discussed  by 
women  at  all,  and  still  less  by  girls  at  her  time  of  life;  and 
che  had  sometimes  ventured  to  disagree  in  opinion  with 
Oracle  Overton — the  nickname  by  which  this  man  was 
known.  But  he  commonly  took  refuge  in  sarcastic  ob- 
servations on  the  ignorance  and  presumption  of  women  ir. 
general,  and  of  blue-slocking  girls  in  particular,  while  on 
his  face  a  grin  of  conscious  superiority  contended  with  th" 
frown  of  pedantic  indignation. 

Hitherto   this  collision  of  wits  had  taken  place  in   Con- 


92  ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    LYINGL 

stantia's  domestic  circle  only ;  but,  one  day,  Overton  and 
the  former  met  at  the  house  of  a  nobleman  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  in  company  with  many  persons  of  consider- 
able talent.  While  they  were  at  table,  the  master  of  the 
house  said  it  was  his  birth-day  ;  and  some  one  imme- 
diately proposed  that  all  the  guest,  who  could  write  ver- 
ses, should  produce  one  couplet  at  least,  in  honour  of  the 
day. 

But  as  Cherton  and  Constantia  were  the  only  persons 
present  who  were  known  to  be  so  gifted,  they  alone  were 
assailed  with  earnest  entreaties  to  employ  their  talents  on 
the  occasion.  The  latter,  however,  was  prevented  by  tim- 
idity from  compliance;  and  she  persevered  in  her  refusal, 
though  Overton  loudly  conjured  her  to  indulge  the  compa- 
ny with  a  display  of  her  wonderful  genius  ',  accompany- 
ing his  words  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  which  she  well  un- 
derstood. Overton's  muse,  therefore,  since  Constantia 
would  not  let  hers  enter  into  the  competition,  walked  over 
the  course ;  having  been  highly  applauded  for  a  mediocre 
stanza  of  eight  doggrel  lines.  But,  as  Constantia's  timidi- 
ty vanished  when  she  found  herself  alone  with  the  ladies  in 
the  drawing-room,  who  were  most  of  them  friends  of  hers, 
she  at  length  produced  some  verses,  which  not  only  delight- 
ed her  affectionate  companions,  but,  when  shown  to  the 
gentlemen,  drew  from  them  more  and  warmer  encomiums 
than  had  been  bestowed  on  the  frothy  tribute  of  her  com- 
petitor ;  while  the  writhing  and  mortified  Overton  forced 
himself  to  say  they  were  very  well,  very  well  indeed,  for  a 
scribbling  miss  of  sixteen ;  insinuating  at  the  same  time  that 
the  pretended  extempore  was  one  written  by  her  father  at 
home,  and  gotten  by  heart  by  herself.  B  ut  the  giver  of 
the  feast  declared  that  he  had  forgotten  it  was  his  birth-day, 
till  he  sat  down  to  table  ;  therefore,  as  every  one  said,  al- 
though the  verses  were  written  by  a  girl  of  sixteen  only, 
they  would  have  done  honour  to  a  riper  age,  Overton  gain- 
ed nodiing  but  added  mortification  from  his  mean  attempt 
to  blight  Constanatia's  well-earned  laurels,  especially  as 
his  ungenerous  conduct  drew  on  him  severe  animadversions 
from  some  of  the  other  guests.  His  fair  rival  also  unwit- 
tingly deepened  his  resentment  against  herself,  by  ventur- 
ing, in  a  playful  manner,  being  emboldened  by  success,  tvj 


THE  ORPHAN.  93 

dispute  some  of  his  paradoxes ; — and  once  she  did  it  so 
successfully,  that  she  got  the  laugh  against  Overton,  in  a 
manner  so  offensive  to  his  self-love,  that  he  suddenly  left 
the  company,  vowing  revenge,  in  his  heart,  against  the 
being  who  had  thus  shone  at  his  expense.  However,  he 
continued  to  visit  at  her  father's  house  ;  and  was  still  con- 
sidered as  their  most  intimate  friend. 

Constantia,  meanwhile,  increased  not  only  both  in  beau- 
ty and  accomplishments,  but  in  qualities  of  a  more  pre- 
cious nature ;  namely,  in  a  knowledge  of  her  christian  du- 
ties. But  her  charities  were  performed  in  secret,  and  so 
fearful  was  she  of  being  deemed  righteous  overmuch,  and 
considered  as  an  enthusiast,  even  by  her  father  himself, 
that  the  soundness  of  her  religious  character  was  known 
only  to  the  sceptical  Overton,  and  two  or  three  more  of 
her  associates,  while  it  was  a  notorious  fact,  that  the  usu- 
al companions  of  her  father  and  herself  were  freethinkers 
and  latitudinarians,  both  in  politicks  and  religion.  But, 
if  Constantia  dLi  not  lay  open  her  religious  faith  to  those 
by  whom  she  was  surrounded,  she  fed  its  lamp  in  her  own 
:  bosom,  with  never-ceasing  watchfulness ;  and,  like  the 
solitary  light  in  a  cottage  on  the  dark  and  lonely  moors, 
it  beamed  on  her  hours  of  solitude  and  retirement,  cheer- 
ing and  warming  her  amidst  surrounding  darkness. 

It  was  to  do  yet  more  for  her.  It  was  to  support  her, 
not  only  under  the  sudden  death  of  a  father  whom  she  ten- 
■  derly  loved,  but  under  the  unexpected  loss  of  income  which 
his  death  occasioned.  On  examining  his  affairs,  it  was 
discovered  that,  when  his  debts  were  all  paid,  there  would 
be  a  bare  maintenance  only  remaining  for  his  afflicted  or- 
phan. Constautia's  sorrow,  though  deep,  was  quiet  and 
gentle  as  her  nature;  and  she  felt,  with  unspeakable 
thankfulness,  that  she  owned  the  trauquillity  and  resigna- 
tion of  her  mind  to  her  religious  convictions  alone. 

The  interesting  orphan  had  only  just  returned  into  the 
society  of  her  friends,  when  a  Sir  Edward  Vandeleur,  a 
young  baronet  of  large  fortune,  came  on  a  visit  in  the 
neighbourhood. 

Sir  Edward  was  the  darling  and  pride  of  a  highly-gifted 
mother,  and  several  amiable  sisters  ;  and  Lady  Vandeleur, 
who  was  in   declining  health,  had  often  urged  her  son  to 


94  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

let  her  have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  married  before 
she  was  taken  away  from  him. 

But,  it  was  no  easy  thing  for  a  man  like  Sir  Edward 
Vandeleur  to  find  a  wife  suited  to  him.  His  feelings  were 
too  much  under  a  strong  religious  restraint,  to  admit  of 
his  falling  violently  in  love,  as  the  phrase  is ;  and  beauty 
and  accomplishments  had  no  chance  of  captivating  his 
heart,  unless  they  were  accompanied  by  qualities  which 
fully  satisfied  his  principles  and  his  judgment. 

It  was  at  this  period  of  his  life  that  Sir  Edward  Van- 
deleur was  introduced  to  Constantia  Gordon,  at  a  small 
conversation  party,  at  the  house  of  a  mutual  acquaintance. 

Her  beauty,  her  graceful  manners,  over  which  sorrow 
had  cast  a  new  and  sobered  charm,  and  her  great  conver- 
sational powers,  made  her  presently  an  object  of  interest 
to  Sir  Edward;  and  when  he  heard  her  story,  that  inter- 
est was  considerably  increased  by  pity  for  her  orphan  state 
and  altered  circumstances. 

Therefore,  though  Sir  Edward  saw  Constantia  rarely, 
and  never,  except  at  one  house,  he  felt  her  at  every  inter- 
view growing  more  on  his  esteem  and  admiration  ;  and  he 
often  thought  of  the  recluse  in  her  mourning  simple  attire, 
and  wished  himself  by  her  side,  when  he  was  the  courted, 
flattered,  attendant  on  a  reigning  belle. 

Not,  that  he  was  in  hive  ; — that  is,  not  that  he  had  im- 
bibed an  attachment  which  his  reason  could  not  at  once 
enable  him  to  conquer,  if  it  should  ever  disapprove  its 
continuance  ; — but  his  judgment,  as  well  as  his  taste,  told 
him  that  Constantia  was  the  sort  of  woman  to  pass  life 
with.  "  Seek  for  a  companion  in  a  wife!"  had  always 
been  his  mother's  advice.  "  Seek  for  a  woman  who  has 
understanding  enough  to  kno.v  her  duties,  and  piety  and 
principle  enough  to  enable  her  to  fulfil  them;  one  who  can 
teach  her  children  to  follow  in  her  steps,  and  form  them 
for  virtue  here,  and  happiness  hereafter  !"  "  Surely," 
thought  Sir  Edward,  as  he  recalled  this  natural  advice, 
"  I  have  found  the  woman  so  described  in  Constantia 
Gordon  !"  But  he  was  still  too  prudent  to  pay  her  any 
marked  attention ;  especially  as  Lady  Vandeleur  had  re- 
commended caution. 

At  this  moment  his  mother  wrote  thus : — 


THE  ORPHAN.  &> 

**  I  do  not  see   any  apparent  objection   to  the  lady  in 

question.— Still,  be  cautious  !  Is  there  no  one  at who 

has  known  her  from  her  childhood,  and  can  give  you  an 
account  of  her  and  her  moral  and  religious  principles, 
which  can  be  relied  upon  1  Death,  that  great  discoverer 
of  secrets,  proved  that  her  father  was  not  a  very  worthy 
man,  still,  bad  parents  have  good  children,  and  vice  ver- 
sa; but,  inquire  and  be  wary." 

The  day  after  Sir  Edward  received  this  letter,  he  was 
introduced  to  Overton  at  the  house  of  a  gentleman  in  the 
neighbourhood  ;  and  at  the  most  unfortunate  period  pos- 
sible for  Constantia  Gordon.  Overton  had  always  pre- 
tended to  have  a  sincere  regard  for  the  poor  orphan,  and 
no  one  was  more  loud  in  regrets  for  her  reduced  fortune  ; 
but,  as  he  was  fond  of  giving  her  pain,  lie  used  to  mingle 
with  his  pity,  so  many  severe  remarks  on  her  father's 
thoughtless  conduct,  that  had  he  not  been  her  father's 
most  familiar  friend,  she  would  have  forbidden  him  her 
presence. 

One  day,  having  found  her  alone  at  her  lodgings,  he  ac- 
companied his  expressions  of  affected  condolence  with  a 
proposal  to  give  her  a  bank  note  now  and  then,  to  buy  her 
a  new  gown ;  as  he  was  (he  said)  afraid  that  she  would 
not  have  money  sufficient  to  set  off  her  charms  to  advan- 
tage. To  real  kindness,  however  vulgarly  worded,  Con- 
stantia's  heart  was  ever  open ;  but  she  immediately  saw 
that  this  offer,  prefaced  as  it  was  by  abuse  of  her  father, 
was  merely  the  result  of  malignity  and  coarseness  com- 
bined ;  and  her  spirit,  though  habitually  gentle,  was  roused 
to  indignant  resentment. 

But  who,  that  has  ever  experienced  the  bitterness  of 
feeling  excited  by  the  cold,  spiteful  efforts  of  a  malignant 
temper  to  irritate  a  gentle  and  generous  nature,  can  with- 
hold their  sympathy  and  pardon  from  Constantia  on  this 
occasion  1  At  last,  gratified  at  having  made  his  victim  a 
while  forego  her  nature,  and  at  being  now  enabled  to  rep- 
resent her  as  a  vixen ;  he  took  his  leave  with  hypocritical 
kindness,  calling  her  his  "  naughty  scolding  Con,1' 
leaving  her  to  humble  herself  before  that  Being  whom  she 
feared  to  have  offended  by  her  violence,  and  to  weep  over 


96  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

the  recollection  of  an  interview  which  had  added,  to  her 
other  miseries,  that  of  self-reproach. 

Overton,  meanwhile,  did  not  retire  unhurt  from  the 
combat.  The  orphan  had  uttered,  in  her  agony,  some 
truths  which  he  could  not  forget.  She  had  held  up  to  him 
a  mirror  of  himself,  from  which  he  found  it  difficult  to  turn 
away,  while  in  proportion  to  his  sense  of  suffering  was  his 
resentment  against  its  fair  cause;  and  his  desire  of  revenge 
was  in  proportion  to  both. 

It  was  on  this  very  day  that  he  dined  in  company  with 
Sir  Edward  Vandeleur,  who  was  soon  informed,  by  the 
master  of  the  house,  that  Overton  had  been,  from  her 
childhood,  the  friend  and  intimate  of  Constantia  Gordon  ; 
and  the  same  gentleman  informed  Overton,  in  private,  that 
Sir  Edward  was  supposed  to  entertain  thoughts  of  paying 
his  addresses  to  Constantia. 

Inexpressible  was  Overton's  consternation  at  hearing 
that  this  girl,  whose  poverty  he  had  insulted,  whom  he 
disliked  because  she  had  been  a  thorn  to  his  self-love,  and 
under  whose  just  severity  he  was  still  smarting,  was  likely, 
not  only  to  be  removed  from  his  power  to  torment  her, 
but  to  be  raised  above  hiin  by  a  fortunate  marriage. 

Great  was  his  triumph,  therefore,  when  Sir  Edward, 
before  they  parted,  requested  an  interview  with  him    the 

following  morning,  at  his  lodgings   in  the  town  of , 

adding,  that  he  wished  to  ask  him  some  questions  con- 
cerning their  mutual  friend,  Constantia  Gordon. 

Accordingly  they  met ;  and  the  following  conversation 
took  place.  Sir  Edward  began  by  candidly  confessing  the 
high  opinion  which  he  had  conceived  of  Constantia,  and 
his  earnest  wish  to  have  its  justice  confirmed  by  the  testi- 
mony of  her  oldest  and  most  intimate  friend.  "  Sir  Ed- 
ward," replied  the  exulting  hypocrite,  with  well-r.cted  re- 
luctance, "  you  put  an  honourable  and  a  kind-hearted  man, 
like  myself,  into  a  complete  embarras." — "  Sir,  what  do 
I  hearl'7  cried  Sir  Edward,  starting  from  his  seat,  "  Can 
you  feel  any  embarrassment,  when  called  upon  to  bear  tes- 
timony in  favour  of  Constantia  Gordon  1"— "  I  dare  say  yau 
cannot  think  such  a  thing  possible,"  he  replied  with  a 
sneer ;  "  for  men  in  love  pre  usually  blind." — "  But  I  am 
not  in  love  yet,"  eagerly  replied  Sir  Edward;    "and  it 


THE  ORPHAN.  91 

very  much  depends  on  this  conversation  whether  I  ever  an* 
so  with  the  lady  in  question." — "  Well  then,  Sir  Edward, 
however  unpalatahle,  I  must  speak  the  truth.  I  need  not 
tell  you  that  Constantia  is  beautiful,  accomplished,  and  tal- 
ented, is,  I  think,  the  new  word." — "  No,  Sir;  I  already 
know  she  is  all  these  ;  and  she  appears  to  me  as  gentle, 
virtuous,  and  pious,  as  she  is  beautiful." — st  1  dare  say  sho 
does  ;  but,  as  to  her  gentleness,  however,  I  might  provoke 
her  improperly; — but,  I  assure  you,  she  flew  into  such  a 
passion  with  me  yesterday,  that  I  thought  she  would  have 
struck  me  !  ' — "  Is  it  possible  !  I  really  feel  a  difliculty  in 
believing  you  !" — "  No  doubt ; — so  let  us  talk  of  some' 
tiling  else." — "  No,  no, — Mr.  Overton  ;  I  came  hither  to 
be  informed  on  a  subject  deeply  interesting  to  me,  and,  at 
whatever  risk  of  disappointment,  I  will  await  all  you  have 
to  say." — "  I  have  nothing  to  say,  Sir  Edward,  you  know 
Con  is  beautiful  and  charming  ;  and  is  not  that  enough  f 
— "  No  !  it  is  not  enough.  Outward  graces  are  not  suf- 
ficient to  captivate  and  fix  me,  unless  they  are  accompani- 
ed by  charms  that  fade  not  with  time,  but  blossom  to  eter- 
nity. ' — "Whew!"  exclaimed  Overton,  with  well-acted 
surprise,  "  I  see  that  you  are  a  methodist,  Sir  Edward  ; 
and  if  so,  my  friend  Con  will  not  suit  you."  "  Does  it 
follow  that  I  am  a  methodist,  because  I  require  that  my 
wife  should  be  a  woman  of  pious  and  moral  habits  V — 
"  Oh  !  for  morals,  these,  indeed,  my  friend  Con  would 
suit  you  well  enough.  Let  her  morals  pass  ; — but  as  to  her 
piety,  religion  will  never  turn  her  head." — "  What  do  you 
mean,  Mr.  Overton  1" — "  Why,  sir,  our  lovely  friend  has 
learned,  from  the  company  which  she  has  kept,  to  think 
freely  on  such  subjects; — very  freely; — for  women,  you 
know,  always  go  to  extremes.  Men  keep  within  the  ra- 
tional bounds  of  deism  ;  but  the  female  sceptic,  weaker  in 
intellect,  and  incapable  of  reasoning,  never  rests,  till  she 
loses  herself  in  the  mazes  and  absurdities  of  atlieism." 
Had  Sir  Edward  Vandeleur  seen  the  fair  smooth  skin  of 
Constantia  suddenly  covered  with  leprosy,  he  would  not 
have  been  more  shocked  than  he  was  at  being  informed  of 
this  utter  blight  to  her  mental  beauty  in  his  rightly-judging 
eyes; — and,  starting  from  his  seat,  he  exclaimed,  "  do 
you  »eaUy  mean  to  assert  that  vour  fair  friend  is  an  atbo- 
G 


90  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF   LYING. 

ist1?"' — "Sir  Edward,  lam  Constantia's  friend:  and  1 
was  her  father's  friend  ;  and  I  am  sorry  these  things  have 
been  forced  upon  me  ; — hut  I  could  not  deceive  an  hon- 
ourable man,  who  placed  confidence  also  in  my  honour  ; 
though,  as  Constantia  is  the  child  of  an  old  friend,  and 
poor,  it  would  be,  perhaps,  a  saving  to  my  pocket,  if  she 
were  well  married."--"  Then,  it  is  true  !"  said  Sir  Ed- 
ward, clasping  his  hands  in  agony  ;  "  and  this  lovely  girl 
is  what  I  hate  to  name  !  Yet,  she  looks  so  right-minded  ! 
and  I  have  thought  the  expression  of  her  dark  blue  eye  was 
that  of  pious  resignation!" — "Yes,  yes;  I  know  that 
look ;  and  she  knows  that  is  her  prettiest  look.  That 
eye,  half  turned  up,  shows  her  fine  iong  dark  eyelashes  to 
great  advantage  !" — "  Alas  !"  replied  Sir  Edward,  deeply 
sighing,  "  if  this  be  so — oh  !  what  are  looks  1  Good  morn- 
ing. You  have  distressed,  but  you  have  saved  me.;? — 
When  Overton,  soon  after,  saw  Sir  Edward  drive  past  in 
his  splended  curricle,  he  exulted  he  had  prevented  Constan- 
tia from  ever  sitting  there  by  his  side. 

Yet  he  was,  as  I  have  said  before,  one  of  the  few  whp 
knew  how  deeply  and  sincerely  Constantia  was  a  believer  ; 
for  he  had  himself,  in  vain,  attempted  to  shake  her  belief, 
and  thence,  he  had  probably  a  double  pleasure  in  repre- 
senting her  as  he  did. 

Sir  Edward  was  engaged  that  evening  to  meet  Constan- 
tia at  the  accustomed  house  ;  and,  as  his  attentions  to  her 
had  been  rather  marked,  and  her  friends,  with  the  usual 
dangerous  officiousness  on  such  occasions,  had  endeavour- 
ed to  convince  her  that  she  had  made  a  conquest,  as  the 
phrase  is,  of  the  young  baronet,  the  expectation  of  meeting 
him  was  become  a  circumstance  of  no  small  interest  to 
her ;  though  she  was  far  too  humble  to  be  convinced  that  they 
were  right  in  their  conjectures. 

But  the  mind  of  Constantia  was  too  much  under  the  gui- 
dance of  religious  principle,  to  allow  her  to  love  any  man, 
however  amiable,  unless  she  was  sure  of  being  beloved  by 
him.  She  was  too  delicate,  and  had  too  much  sell-respect, 
to  be  capable  of  such  a  weakness  ;  she  therefore  escaped 
that  danger,  of  which  I  have  seen  the  peace  of  some  young 
women  become  the  victim  ;  namely,  that  of  being  talked 
and  flattered  into  a  hopeless  passion  by  tlie  idle  wishes  and 


THE  ORPHAN.  JJ 

representations  of  gossippiag  acquaintances*  And  well 
was  it  for  her  peace  that  she  had  been  thus  holily  on  her 
guard ;  for,  when  Sir  Edward  Vandeleur,  instead  of 
keeping  his  engagement,  sent  a  note  to  inform  her  friend 
that  he  was  not  able  to  wait  on  her,  as  he  thought  of  go- 
ing to  London  the  next  day,  Constantia  felt  that  tl»e  idea 
of  his  attachment  was  as  unfounded  as  it  had  been  pleas- 
ing, and  she  rejoiced  that  the  illusion  had  not  been  long 
enough  to  endanger  her  tranquility.  Still,  she  could  not 
but  own,  in  the  secret  of  her  heart,  that  the  prospect  of 
passing  life  with  a  being  apparently  so  suited  to  herself, was 
one  on  which  her  thoughts  had  dwelt  with  involuntary  pleas- 
ure ;  and  a  tear  started  to  her  eyes,  at  the  idea  that  she 
might  see  him  no  more.  But,  she  considered  it  as  the  tear  of 
weakness,  and  though  her  sleep  that  night  was  short,  it 
was  tranquil,  and  she  rose  the  next  morning  to  resume  die 
duties  of  the  day  with  her  accustomed  alacrity.  In  her 
walks  she  met  Sir  Edward,  but,  happily  for  her  as  he  was 
leaning  on  Overton's  arm,  whom  she  had  not  seen  since 
she  had  parted  with  him  in  anger,  a  turn  was  given  to  her 
feelings,  by  the  approach  of  the  latter,  which  enabled  her 
to  conquer  at  once  her  emotion  at  the  unexpected  sight  of 
the  former.  Still,  the  sight  of  Overton  occasioned  in  her 
disagreeable  and  painful  recollections,  which  gave  an  un- 
pleasing  and  equivocal  expression  to  her  beautiful  features, 
and  enabled  Overton  to  observe,  "  You  see,  Sir  Edward, 
how  her  conscience  flies  in  her  face  at  seeing  me  !  How 
are  you  1  How  are  you  1"  said  Overton,  catching  her 
hand  as  she  passed. — "  Have  you  forgiven  me  yet  1  Oh  ! 
you  vixen,  how  you  scolded  me  the  other  day  !"  Con- 
stantia,  too  much  mortified  and  agitated  to  speak,  and  re- 
pel the  charge,  replied  by  a  look  of  indignation ;  and, 
snatching  her  hand  away,  she  bowed  to  Sir  Edward,  and 
hastened  out  of  sight.  "  You  see,"  cried  Overton,  "  that 
she  resents  still !  and  how  like  a  fury  she  looked  !  You 
must  be  convinced  that  I  told  you  the  truth.  Now,  could 
you  believe,  Sir  Edward,  that  pretty  Con  could  have  look- 
ed in  that  manner  1" — "  Certainly  not ;  and  appearances 
are  indeed  deceitful."  Still,  Sir  Edward  wished  Constan- 
lia  had  given  hirn  an  opportunity  of  bidding  her  farewell; 
however,  he  left  his  good  wishes  and  respects  for  her  witfc 


100  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYLNG. 

their  mutual  friend,  and  set  off  that  evening  to  join  his 
mother  at  Hastings.  "  But  are  you  sure,  Edward,"  said 
Lady  Vandeleur,  when  he  had  related  to  her  all  that  had 
passed,  "  that  this  Overton  is  a  man  to  be  depended  upon  V* 
— "  Oh,  yes  !  and  he  could  have  no  motive  for  calumnia- 
ting her,  but  the  contrary,  as  it  would  have  been  a  relief 
to  his  mind  and  pocket  to  get  his  old  friend's  daughter  well 
married." — *'  But,  does  she  appear  to  her  other  friends 
neglectful  of  her  religious  duties,  as  if  she  had  really  no 
religion  at  all  V — "  So  far  from  it,  that  she  has  always 
been  punctual  in  the  outward  performance  of  them ;  there- 
fore, no  one  but  Overton,  the  confidential  friend  and  inti- 
mate of  the  family,  could  suspect  or  know  her  real  opinions  ; 
thus  she  adds,  I  fear,  hypocrisy  to  scepticism.  Overton 
also  accuses  her  of  being  violent  in  her  temper  ;  and  I  was 
unexpectedly  enabled  to  see  the  truth  of  this  accusation, 
in  a  measure,  confirmed.  Therefore,  indeed,  dear  mother, 
all  I  have  to  do  is  to  forget  her,  and  resume  my  intention 
of  accompanying  you  and  my  sisters  to  the  continent." 
Accordingly  they  set  off  very  soon  on  a  foreign  tour. 

Constantia,  after  she  left  Overton  and  Sir  Edward  so 
hastily  and  suddenly,  returned  home  in  no  enviable  state 
of  mind  ;  because  she  felt  sure  that  her  manner  had  been 
such  as  to  convince  the  latter  that  she  was  the  violent  crea- 
ture which  Overton  had  represented  her  to  be  ;--and  though 
she  had  calmly  resigned  all  idea  of  being  beloved  by  Sir 
Edward  Vandeleur,  she  was  not  entirely  indifferent  to  his 
good  opinion.  Besides,  she  feared  that  her  quitting  him, 
without  one  word  of  kind  farewell,  might  appear  to  him  a 
proof  of  pique  and  disappointment ;  nor  could  she  be  quite 
sure  that  somewhat  of  that  feeling  did  not  impel  her  to 
hasten  abruptly  away ;  and  it  was  some  time  before  she 
could  conquer  her  self-blame  and  her  regret.  But,  at 
length,  she  reflected  that  there  was  a  want  of  proper  self- 
government  in  dwelling  at  all  on  recollections  of  Sir  Edward 
Vandeleur  ;  and  she  ioreed  herself  into  society  and  absorb- 
ing occupation. 

Hitherto  Constantia  had  been  contented  to  remain  in 
idleness ;  but,  as  her  income  was,  she  found,  barely  equal 
to  her  maintenance,  and  she  was  therefore  obliged  to  re- 
linquish near!}'  all  her  tharities,  she  resolved  to  turn  her 


THE  ORPHAN.  101 

talents  to  account ;  and  was  just  about  to  decide  between 
two  plans,  which  she  had  thought  desirable,  when  an  un- 
cle in  India  died,  and  the  question  was  decided  in  a  very 
welcome  and  unexpected  manner.  Till  this  gentleman 
married,  her  father  had  Eocti  large  expectations  lion,  him, 
that  he  had  fancied  them  a  sufficient  excuse  for  his  profuse 
expenditure  ;  but,  when  his  brother,  by  having  children, 
destroyed  his  hopes  of  wealth  from  that  quarter,  he  had 
not  strength  of  mind  enough  to  break  the  expensive  habits 
which  he  had  acquired.  To  the  deserving  child,  however, 
was  destined  the  wealth  withheld  from  the  undeserving  par- 
ent. Constantia's  uncle's  wife  and  children  died  before  he 
did,  and  she  became  sole  heiress  to  his  large  fortune.  This 
event  communicated  a  sensation  of  gladness  to  the  whole 
town  in  which  the  amiable  orphan  resided. 

Constantia  had  borne  her  faculties  so  meekly,  had  been 
so  actively  benevolent,  and  was  thence  so  generally  be- 
loved, that  she  was  now  daily  overpowered  with  thank- 
ful and  pleasing  emotion,  at  beholding  countenances  which 
at  sight  of  her,  were  lighted  up  with  affectionate  sympathy 
arid  joy. 

Overton  was  one  of  the  first  persons  whom  she  desired 
to  see,  on  this  accession  of  fortune.  Her  truly  christian 
spirit  had  long  made  her  wish  to  hold  out  to  him  her  hand, 
in  token  of  forgiveness  ;  but  she  wished  to  do  so  more  es- 
pecially now,  because  he  could  not  suspect  her  of  being  in- 
fluenced by  any  mercenary  views.  Overton,  however, 
meant  to  call  on  her,  whether  she  invited  him  or  not;  as, 
such  was  his  love  and  respect  for  xoealth,  that,  though  the 
poor  Constantia  was  full  of  faults  in  his  eye,  the  rich  Con- 
stantia was  very  likely  to  appear  to  him,  in  time,  impecca- 
ble. He  was  at  this  period  Mayor  of  the  place  in  which 
he  lived ;  and,  having  been  knighted  for  carrying  up  an 
address,  he  became  desirous  of  using  the  privilege,  which, 
according  to  Shakespeare's  Falconbridge,  knighthood  gives 
a  man,  of  making  any  "  Joan  a  lady."  Nor  was  it  long  be- 
fore he  entertained  serious  thoughts  of  marrying  ;  and  whv 
not  %  as  he  was  only  fifty  ;  was  very  young-looking  for  his 
age ;  was  excessively  handsome  still ;  and  had  now  a 
title,  in  addition  to  a  good  fortune.    The  only  difficulty  was 


102  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LUNG. 

to  make  a  choice  ;  for  he  was  very  sure  that  he  must  be  the 
choice  of  any  one  to  whom  lie  offered  himself. 

But  where  could  he  find  in  one  woman  all  the  qualities 
which  he  required  in  a  wife  !  She  must  have  youth,  and 
beauty,  or  he  could  not  love  her  ;  good  principles,  or  he 
could  not  trust  her  ;  and,  though  he  was  not  religious  him- 
self, he  had  a  certain  consciousness  that  the  best  safeguard 
for  a  woman's  principles  was  to  be  found  in  piety  ;  there- 
fore, he  resolved  that  his  wife  should  be  a  religious  wo- 
man. Temper,  patience,  and  forbearance,  were  also  re- 
quisites in  the  woman  he  married ;  and,  as  the  last  and 
best  recommendation,  she  must  have  a  large  fortune. 
Reasonable  man  !  youth,  beauty,  temper,  virtue,  piety, 
and  riches  !  but  what  woman  of  his  acquaintance  possessed 
all  these  1  No  one,  he  believed,  but  that  forgiving  being 
whom  he  had  represented  •  as  an  atheist; — "  that  vixen, 
Con  !"  and  while  this  conviction  came  over  his  mind,  a 
blush  of  shame  passed  over  even  his  brassy  brow. — How- 
ever, it  was  soon  succeeded  by  one  of  pleasure,  when  he 
thought  that,  as  Constantia  was  evidently  uneasy  till  she 
had  made  it  up  with  him,  as  the  phrase  is,  it  was  not  un- 
likely that  she  had  a  secret  liking  to  him  ;  and  as  to  her 
scribbling  verses,  and  pretending  to  be  literary,  he  would 
take  care  that  she  should  not  write  when  she  was  hid 
wife  ;  and  he  really  thought  he  had  better  propose  to  her 
at  once,  especially  "as  it  was  a  duty  in  him  to  make  her  a 
lady  himself,  since  he  had  prevented  another  man's  doing 
so.  There  was  perhaps  another  inducement  to  marry 
Constantia.  It  would  give  him  an  opportunity  of  tor- 
menting her  now  and  then,  and  making  her  smart  for 
former  impertinences.  Perhaps,  this  motive  was  nearly 
as  strong  as  the  rest.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Overton  had,  at 
length,  the  presumption  to  make  proposals  of  marriage  to 
the  young  and  lovely  heiress,  who,  though  ignorant  of  his 
base  conduct  to  her,  and  the  lie  of  first-rate  malig- 
nity with  which  he  had  injured  her  fame,  and  blighted  her 
prospects,  had  still  a  dislike  to  his  manners  and  character, 
which  was  impossible  for  any  thing  to  overcome.  He  was 
therefore  refused, — and  in  a  manner  so  decided,  and,  spite 
of  herself,  so  haughty,  that  Overton's  heart  renewed  all 
its  malignity  towards  her  ;  and  his  manner  became  so  rude 


THE  ORPHAN'.  103 

and  offensive,  that  she  was  constrained  to  refuse  him  ad- 
mittance, and  go  on  a  visit  to  a  friend  at  some  distance, 
intending  not  to  return  til!  th'- house  which  she  had  pur- 
chased in  a  village  near  to was  ready  for  her.     But 

she  had  not  been  absent  many  months  whon  she  received  a 
letter  one  evening,  to  inf>rm    her   rh;it   her  dearest  friend 

at was  supposed  to    be   in   the  greatest  danger,  and 

she  was  requested  to  set  off  directly.  To  disobey  this  sum- 
mons was  impossible  ;  and,  as  the  mail  passed  the  house 
where  she  was,  and  she  was  certain  of  getting  on  faster 
that  way  than  any  other,  she  resolved,  accompanied  by  her 
servant,  to  go  by  the  mail,  if  possible ;  and,  happily, 
there  were  two  places  vacant.  It  was  night  when 
Constantia  and  her  maid  entered  the  coach,  in  which  two 
gentlemen  were  already  seated ;  and,  to  the  conster- 
nation of  Constantia,  she  soon  saw,  as  they  passed  near  a 
lamp,  that  her  vis-a-vis  was  Overton  !  He  recognised  her 
at  the  same  moment ;  and  instantly  began,  in  the  French 
language,  to  express  his  joy  at  meeting  her,  and  to  profess 
the  faithfulness  of  his  fervent  affection.  In  vain  did  she  try 
to  force  conversation  with  the  other  passenger,  who  seem- 
ed willing  to  talk,  and  who,  though  evidently  not  a  gentle- 
man, was  much  preferable,  in  her  opinion,  to  the  new  Sir 
Richard.  He  would  not  allow  her  to  attend  to  any  conver- 
sation but  his  own  ;  and,  as  it  was  with  difficulty  that  shr; 
could  keep  her  hand  from  his  grasp,  she  tried  to  change 
seals  with  her  maid  ;  but  Overton  forcibly  withheld  her  ; 
and  she  thought  it  was  better  to  endure  the  evil  patiently, 
than  violently  resist  it.  When  the  mail  stopped,  that  the 
passengers  might  sup,  Constantia  hoped  Overton  would,  at 
least,  leave  her  for  a  time;  but,  though  the  other  passen- 
ger got  out,  he  kept  his  seat,  and  was  so  persevering,  and 
was  so  much  more  disagreeable  when  the  restraint  impos- 
ed on  him  by  the  presence  of  others  was  removed,  that  she 
was  glad  when  the  coach  was  again  full,  and  the  mail 
drove  off. 

Overton,  however,  became  so  increasingly  offensive  to 
her,  that,  at  length,  she  assured  hiin,  in  language  the 
most  solemn  and  decided,  that  nothing  should  ever  in- 
duce her  to  be  his  wife ;  and  that,  were  she  pennyless, 


104  ILLUSTRATIONS  Of  LYING. 

serine*  would  be  more  desirable  to  her  than  union  with 
him. 

This  roused  his  anger  even  to  frenzy  ;  and,  still  speak- 
ing French,  a  language  which  he  was  sure  the  illiterate 
man  in  the  corner  could  not  understand,  he  told  her  that 
she  refused  him  only  because  she  loved  Sir  Edward  Van- 
dcleur ;-"  but,"  said  he,  "  you  have  no  chance  of  obtain- 
ing him.  I  have  taken  care  to  prevent  that.  I  gave  him 
such  a  character  of  you  as  frightened  him  away  from  you, 

and "     "  Base-minded  man  !"  cried  Con- 

Btantia  ;  "  what  did  you,  what  could  you  say  against  my 
fharacter  1" — "  Oh  !  I  said  nothing  against  your  morals. 
I  only  told  him  you  were  an  atheist,  and  a  vixen,  that  is 
all  : — and,  you  know,  you  are  the  latter  though  not  the  for- 
mer ;  hut  are  more  like  a  methodist  than  an  atheist  !" — 
"  And  you  told  him  these  horrible  falsehoods  !    And  if  you 

had  not,    would   he   have did   he   then  1 

but  I  know  not  what  I  say  ;  and  I  am  mis- 
erable !  Cruel,  wicked  man  !  how  could  you  thus  dare  to 
injure  and  misrepresent  an  unprotected  orphan  !  and  the 
child  of  your  friend  !  and  to  calumniate  me  to  him  too  ! 
to  Sir  Edward  Vandeleur  !  Oh  !  it  was  cruel  indeed  !" — 
"  What  !  then  you  wished  to  please  him,  did  you  1  answer 
me  !"  he  vociferated,  seizing  both  her  hands  in  his; 
"  Are  you  attached  to  Sir  Edward  Vandeleur  1"  But, 
before  ^Constantia  could  answer  no,  and,  while  faintly 
screaming  with  apprehension  and  pain,  she  vainly  tried  to 
free  herself  from  Overton's  nervous  grasp,  a  powerful  hand 
rescued  her  from  the  ruffian  gripe.  Then,  while  the  dawn 
shone  brightly  upon  her  face,  Constantia  and  Overton  at 
the  same  moment  recognised,  in  her  rescuer,  Sir  Edward 
Vandeleur  himself ! 

He  was  just  returned  from  France  ;  and  was  on  his  way 

to  the  neighbourhood  of ;  being  now,  as  he  believed, 

able  to  see  Constantia  with  entire  indifference,  when,  as 
one  of  his  horses  became  ill,  he  resolved  to  take  that  place  in 
the  mail  which  the  other  passenger  had  quitted  for  the  box  ; 
and  had  thus  the  pleasure  of  hearing  all  suspicions,  all  im- 
putations, against  the  character  of  Constantia  cleared 
off,  and  removed  at  once,  and  for  ever  !  Constantia's  joy 
Was  little  inferior  to  his  own  :  but  it  was  soon  lost  in  ter- 


LIES  O."   .  'oCOXD-RATfc  MALIGNITY.       iUO 

ror  at  the  probable  veeuk  of  tbo  angry  emotiona  of  Sir 
Edward  and  Overton.  Her  fear,  however,  vanished, 
when  the  former  assured  the  latter,  that  the  man  who 
could  injure  an  innocent  woman,  by  a  lie  of  first-rate 
MALIGNITY,  was  beneath  even  the  resentment  of  an  hon- 
ourable man. 

I  shall  only  add,  that  Overton  left  the  mail  at  the  next 
stage,  baffled,  disgraced,  and  miserable;  that  Constantia 
found  her  friend  recovering ;  and  that  the  next  time  she 
travelled  along  that  road,  it  was  as  the  bride  of  Sir  Edward 
Vandeleur. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LIES  OF  SECOND-RATE  MALIGNITY 

I  have  observed,  in  the  foregoing  chapter,  that  lies  of 
first-rate  malignity  are  not  frequent,  because  the 
arm  of  the  law  defends  reputations  ; — but,  against  lies  of 
second-rate. malignity,  the  law  holds  out  no  protection  ;  nor 
is  there  a  tribunal  of  sufficient  power  either  to  deter  any 
one  from  uttering  them,  or  to  punish  the  otterer.  The 
lies  in  question  spring  from  the  spirit  of  detraction;  a 
spirit  more  widely  diffused  in  society  than  any  other ;  and 
it  gives  birth  to  satire,  ridicule,  mimickry,  quizzing,  and 
lies  of  second-rate  malignity,  as  certainly  as  a  wet  season 
brings  snails. 

I  shall  now  explain  what  I  consider  as  lies  of  second- 
rate  malignity; — namely,  tempting  persons,  by  dint 
of  flattery,  to  do  what  they  are  incapable  of  doing  well, 
from  the  mean,  malicious  wish  of  leading  them  to  expose 
themselves,  in  order  that  their  tempter  may  enjoy  a  hearty 
laugh  at  their  expense.  Persuading  a  man  to  drink  more 
than  his  head  can  hear,  by  assurances  that  the  wine  is  not 
strong,  and  that  he  has  not  drunk  as  much  as  he  thinks 
lie  has,  in  order  to  make  him  intoxicated,  and  that  his  pel* 


ltJ#  ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    LYINO. 

miaders  may  enjoy  the  cruel  delight  of  witnessing  his 
drunken  silliness,  his  vain-glorious  boastings,  and  those 
physical  contortions,  or  mental  weaknesses,  which  intoxi- 
cation is  always  sure  to  produce.  Complimenting  either 
man  or  woman  on  qualities  which  they  do  not  possess,  in 
hopes  of  imposing  on  their  credulity ;  praising  a  lady's 
work,  or  dress,  to  her  face ;  and  then,  as  soon  as  she  is 
no  longer  present,  not  only  abusing  both  her  work  and  her 
dress,  but  laughing  at  her  weakness,  in  believing  the  praise 
sincere.  Lavishing  encomiums  on  a  man's  abilities  and 
learning  in  his  presence ;  and  then,  as  soon  as  he  is  out  of 
hearing,  expressing  contempt  for  his  credulous  belief  in 
the  sincerity  of  the  praises  bestowed  ;  and  wonder  that  he 
should  be  so  blind  and  conceited  as  not  to  know  that  he 
was  in  learning  only  a  smatterer,  and  in  understanding  .hist 
not  a  fool.  All  these  are  lies  of  second-rate  malignity, 
which  cannot  be  exceeded  in  base  and  petty  treachery. 

The  following  story  will,  I  trust,  explain    fully  what,  in 
the  common  intercourse  of  society,  I  consider  as  lies  of 

SECOND-RATE   MALIGNITY. 


THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN 

AN 

THE  YOUNG  ONE. 

Nothing  shows  the  force  of  habit  more  than  the  tenacious- 
ness  with  which  those  adhere  to  economical  usages  who,  by 
their  own  industry  and  unexepected  good  fortune,  are  be- 
come rich  in  the  decline  of  life. 

A  gentleman,  whom  I  shall  call  Dr.  Albany,  had,  early 
in  life,  taken  his  degree  at  Cambridge,  as  a  doctor  of  phy- 
sick,  and  had  settled  in  London  as  physician ;  but  had 
worn  away  the  best  part  of  his  existence  in  vain  cxpeeta- 


THE  OLD  0E!7TLEMAN.  lOT 

tion  of  practice,  when  an  old  bachelor,  a  coHege  friend, 
whom  he  had  greatly  served  died,  and  left  him  tlie  whole 
of  his  large  fortune. 

Dr.  Albany  had  indeed  deserved  this  bequest  ;  for  he 
had  rendered  his  friend  the  greatest  of  all  services.  He 
had  rescued  him,  by  his  friendly  advice,  and  enlightened 
arguments, from  scepticism,  apparently  the  most  hopeless; 
and,  both  by  precept  and  example,  had  allured  him  along 
the  way  that  leads  to  salvation. 

But,  as  wealth  came  to  Dr.  Albany  too  late  in  life  for 
him  to  think  of  marrying,  and  as  he  had  no  relations  who 
needed  all  his  fortune,  he  resolved  to  leave  the  greatest  part 
of  it  to  those  friends  who  wanted  it  the  most. 

Hitherto,  he  had  scarcely  ever  left  London ;  as  he  had 
thought  it  right  to  wait  at  home  to  receive  business,  even 
though  business  never  came  ;  but  now  he  was  resolved  to 
renew  the  neglected  acquaintances  of  his  youth ;  and, 
knowing  that  some  of  his  early  friends  lived  near  Chelten- 
ham, Leamington,  and  Malvern,  he  resolved  to  visit  those 
watering-places,  in  hopes  of  meeting  there  some  of  Uiese 
well-remembered  faces. 

Most  men,  under  his  circumstances,  would  have  ordered 
a  handsome  carriage  and  entered  Cheltenham  in  style  ; 
but,  as  I  before  observed,  habits  of  economy  adhere  so 
closely  to  persons  thus  situated,  that  Dr.  Albany  could  not 
prevail  on  himself  to  travel  in  a  manner  more  in  apparent 
accordance  with  the  acquisition  of  such  a  fortune.  He 
therefore  went  by  a  cheap  day-coach  ;  nor  did  he  take  » 
servant  with  him.  But,  though  still  denying  indulgen- 
ces to  himself,  the  first  wish  of  his  heart  was  to  be  gen- 
erous to  others  ;  and,  surely,  that  economy  which  is  un- 
accompanied by  avarice  may,  even  in  the  midst  of  wealth, 
be  denominated  a  virtue. 

While  dinner  was  serving  up,  when  they  stopped  on 
the  road,  Albany  walked  up  a  hill  near  the  inn,  and  was 
joined  there  by  a  passenger  from  another  coach.  During 
their  walk  he  observed  a  very  pretty  house  on  a  rising 
ground  in  the  distance,  and  asked  his  companion,  who  Jiv- 
ed there.  The  latter  replied  that  it  was  the  residence  of 
a  clergyman,  of  the  name  of  Musgrave.  "  Musgrave  !w 
he  eagerly  replied,  "what  Musgrave  1  Is  his  name  Au- 


108  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYING. 

gustusr'— «  Yes;"— "Is  he  married  V— "  Yes  ;" — 
*'  Has  he  a  family  V  "  Oh  yes  ;  a  large  one  ;  six  daugh- 
ters, and  one  son  ;  and  he  has  found  it  a  hard  task  to  bring 
them  up,  as  he  wished  to  make  them  accomplished.  The 
son  is  now  going  to  college." — "  Are  they  an  amiable  fam- 
ily 1" — "  Very ;  the  girls  sing  and  play  well,  draw  well." 
— "And  what  is  the  son  to  be*?" — "A  clergyman." — 
"  Has  he  any  chance  of  a  living  V* — "  Not  that  I  know 
of;  but  he  must  be  something  ;  and  a  legacy  which  the 
father  has  just  had,  of  a  few  hundred  pounds,  will  enable 
him  to  pay  college  expenses,  till  his  son  gets  ordained,  and 
can  take  curacies." — "  Is  Musgrave,"  said  Albany  after  a 
pause,  "  a  likely  man  to  give  a  cordial  welcome  to  an  old 
friend,  whom  he  has  not  seen  for  many  years  1" — "  Oh 
yes ;  he  is  very  hospitable ;  and  there  he  is,  now  going 
into  his  own  gate." — "  Then  I  will  not  go  on,"  said  Alba- 
ny, hastening  to  the  stables.  "  There,  coachman,"  cried  he, 
"  take  your  money  ;    and  give  me  my  little  portmanteau." 

Augustus  Musgrave  had  been  a  favourite  college  friend  of 
Dr.  Albany's,  and  he  had  many  associations  with  his  name 
and  image,  which  were  dear  to  his  heart. 

The  objects  of  them  were  gone  for  ever  ;  but,  thus  re- 
called, they  came  over  his  mind  like  strains  of  long-forgotten 
musick,  which  he  had  loved  and  carolled  in  youth ;  throw- 
ing so  strong  a  feeling  of  tenderness  over  the  recollection 
of  Musgrave,  that  he  felt  an  irresistible  desire  to  see  hi  in 
again,  and  greet  his  wife  and  children  in  the  language  of 
glowing  good-will. 

But,  when  he  was  introduced  into  his  friend's  presence, 
he  had  the  mortification  of  finding  that  he  was  not  recog- 
nized ;  and  was  obliged  to  tell  his  name. 

The  name,  however,  seemed  to  electrify  Musgrave  with 
affectionate  gladness.  He  shook  his  old  friend  heartily  by 
the  hand,  presented  him  to  his  wife  and  daughters,  and  for 
some  minutes  moved  and  spoke  with  the  brightness  and 
alacrity  of  early  youth. 

But  the  animation  was  momentary.  The  cares  of  a  fam- 
ily, and  the  difficulty  of  keeping  up  the  appearance  of  a 
gentleman  with  an  income  not  sufficient  for  his  means,  had 
preyed  on  Musgrave's  spirits ;  especially  as  he  knew  him- 
self to  be  involved  in  debt.    He  had  also  other  cares.  The 


THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN.  109 

weakness  of  his  nature,  which  he  dignified  by  the  name  of 
tenderness  of  heart,  had  made  him  allow  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren to  tyrannize  over  him  ;  and  his  son,  who  was  an  uni- 
versal quizzer,  did  not  permit  even  his  father  to  escape 
from  his  impertinent  ridicule.  But  then  Musgrave  was 
assured,  by  his  own  family,  that  his  son  Marmaduke  was  a 
wit ;  and  that,  when  he  was  once  in  orders,  his  talents  would 
introduce  him  into  the  first  circles,  and  lead  to  ultimate 
promotion  in  his  profession. 

I  have  before  said  that  Dr.  Albany  did  not  travel  like  a 
gentleman  ;  nor  were  his  every-day  clothes  at  all  indicative 
of  a  well-filled  purse.  Therefore,  though  he  was  a  physi- 
cian, and  a  man  of  pleasing  manners,  Musgrave's  fine  lady 
wife,  and  her  tonnish  daughters,  could  have  readily  excus- 
ed him,  if  he  had  not  persuaded  their  unexpected  guest  to 
stay  a  week  with  them  ;  and  with  a  frowning  brow,  they  saw 
the  portmanteau,  which  the  strange  person  had  brought 
himself,  carried  into  the  best  chamber. 

But  oh  !  the  astonishment  and  the  comical  grimaces  with 
which  Marmaduke  Musgrave,  on  his  coming  in  from  fish- 
ing, beheld  the  new  guest  !  Welcome  smiled  on  one  side 
of  his  face,  but  scorn  sneered  on  the  other  ;  and  when  Al- 
bany retired  to  dress,  he  declared  that  the  only  thing  which 
consoled  him  for  finding  such  a  person  forced  on  them,  was 
the  consciousness  that  he  could  extract  great  fun  out  of  the 
old  quiz,  and  serve  him  up  for  the  entertainment  of  himself 
and  friends. 

To  this  amiable  exhibition  the  mother  and  daughters, 
looked  forward  with  great  satisfaction  ;  while  his  father, 
having  vainly  talked  of  the  dues  of  hospitality,  gave  in,  know- 
ing that  it  was  in  vain  to  contend  ;  comforting  himself  with 
the  hope  that,  while  Marmaduke  was  quizzing  the  guest,  he 
must  necessarily  leave  him  alone. 

In  the  meanwhile,  how  different  were  the  cogitations 
and  the  plans  of  the  benevolent  Albany  !  -He  had  a  long 
tete-a-tete  walk  with  Musgrave,  which  had  convinced  him 
that  his  old  friend  was  not  happy,  owing,  he  suspected,  to 
his  narrow  income  and  expensive  family. 

Then  his  son  was  going  to  college ;  a  dangerous  and 
ruinous  place  :  and,  while  the  good  old  man  was  dressing 
for  dinner,  he  had  laid  plans  of  action  which  made  him  feel 


110  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LUNG. 

more  deeply  thankful  than  ever  for  the  wealth  so  unexpec- 
tedly bestowed  on  him.  Of  this  wealth  he  had,  as  yet, 
said  nothing  to  Musgrave.  He  was  not  purse-proud ;  and 
when  he  heard  his  friend  complain  of  his  poverty,  he  shrunk 
from  saying  how  rich  he  himself  was.  He  had  therefore 
simply  said  that  he  was  enabled  to  retire  from  business  ; 
and  when  Musgrave  saw  his  friend's  independent,  econo- 
mical habits,  as  evinced  by  his  mode  of  travelling,  he  con- 
cluded that  he  had  only  gained  a  small  independence,  suffi- 
cient for  his  slender  wants. 

To  tfiose,  to  whom  amusement  is  every  thing,  and  who 
can  enjoy  fun  even  when  it  is  procured  by  the  sacrifice  of 
every  benevolent  feeling,  that  evening  at  the  rectory,  when 
the  family  party  was  increased  by  the  arrival  of  some  of 
the  neighbours,  would  have  been  an  exquisite  treat  ;  for 
Marmaduke  played  off  the  unsuspicious  old  man  to  admi- 
ration ;  mimicked  him  even  to  his  face,  unperceived  by 
him ;  and  having  found  out  that  Albany  had  not  only  a  pas- 
sion for  musick,  but  unfortunately  fancied  that  he  could 
sing  himself,  he  urged  his  guest,  by  his  flatteries,  lies  of 
second-rate  malignity,  to  sing  song  after  song,  in  or- 
der 10  make  him  expose  himself  for  the  entertainment  of 
the  company,  and  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  perfecting  his 
mimickry. 

Blind,  infatuated,  contemptible  boy  !  short-sighted  trifler 
on  the  path  of  the  world  !  Marmaduke  Musgrave  saw  not 
that  the  very  persons  who  seemed  to  idolize  his  pernicious 
talents  must  unless  they  were  ldst  to  all  sense  of  moral 
feeling,  despise  and  distrust  the  youth  who  could  play  on  the 
weakness  of  an  unoffending,  artless  old  man,  and  violate  the 
rights  of  hospitality  to  his  father's  friend 

But  Marmanduke  had  no  heart,  and  but  little  mind  ;  for 
mimickry  is  the  lowest  of  the  talents  ;  and  to  be  even  a  suc- 
cessful quizzer  requires  no  talent  at  all.  But  his  father  had 
once  a  heart,  though  cares  and  pecuniary  embarrassments 
had  choked  it  up,  and  substituted  selfishness  for  sensibility  * 
the  sight  of  his  early  companion  had  called  some  of  the  lat- 
ter quality  into  action  ;  and  he  seriously  expostulated  with 
his  son  on  his  daring  to  turn  so  respectable  a  man  into  rid- 
icule. But  Marmaduke  answered  him  by  insolent  disre- 
gard ;  and  when  he  also  said,  if  your  friend  be  so  silly  as 


THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN.  Ill 

to  sing,  that  is,  do  what  ho  cannot  do,  am  I  not  justified 
in  laughing  at  him  1  Musgrave  assented  to  the  proposition. 
He  might  however  have  replied,  "  but  you  are  not  justified 
in  lying,  in  order  to  urge  him  on,  nor  in  saying,  to  him, 
"  you  can  sing,"  when  you  know  he  cannot.  If  he  be 
V)eak,  it  is  not  necessary  that  you  should  be  treacherous." 
But  Musgrave  always  came  oft"  halting  from  a  combat  with 
his  undutifii!  son  ;  he  therefore  sighed,  ceased,  and  turned 
away.  On  one  point  fifarmaduke  was  right  : — when  van- 
ity prompts  us  to  do  what  we  cannot  do  well,  while  con- 
ceit leads  us  to  fancy  that  our  efforts  are  successful,  we  are 
perhaps  fit  objects  for  ridicule.  A  consideration  which 
holds  up  to  us  this  important  lesson  ;  namely,  that  our  own 
weakness  alone  can,  for  any  length  of  time,  make  us  vic- 
tims of  the  satire  and  malignity  of  others.  When  Albany's 
visit  to  Musgrave  was  drawing  near  to  is  conclusion,  he 
was  very  desirous  of  being  asked  to  prolong  it,  as  he  had 
become  attached  to  his  friend's  children,  from  living  with 
them,  and  witnessing  their  various  accomplishments,  and 
was  completely  the  dupe  of  Marmaduke's  treacherous 
compliments.  He  was  therefore  glad  when  he,  as  well  as 
the  Musgraves,  was  invited  to  dine  at  a  house  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, on  the  very  day  intended  for  his  departure.  This 
circumstance  led  them  all,  with  one  accord  to  say  that  he 
must  remain  at  least  a  day  longer,  while  Marmaduke  ex- 
claimed, "  Go  you  shall  not !  Our  friends  would  be  so  dis- 
appointed, if  they  and  their  company  did  not  hear  you  sing 
and  act  that  sweet  song  about  Chloe  !  and  all  the  pleasure 
of  the  evening  would  be  destroyed  to  me,  dear  sir,  if  you 
were  not  there !" 

This  was  more  than  enough  to  make  Albany  put  off"  his 
departure ;  and  he  accompanied  the  Musgraves  to  the  din- 
ner party.  They  dined  at  an  early  hour  ;  so  early,  that  it 
was  daylight,  when,  tea  being  over,  the  intended  amuse- 
ments of  the  afternoon  began,  of  which  the  most  prominent 
was  to  be  the  vocal  powers  of  the  mistaken  Albany,  who, 
without  much  pressing,  after  sundry  flatteries  from  Marma- 
duke, cleared  his  throat,  and  began  to  sing  and  act  die  song 
of"  Chloe."  At  first,  he  was  hoarse,  and  stopped  to  apo- 
logize for  waut  of  voice ;  "Nonsense!"  cried  Marma- 
duke, M  you  never  were  in  better  voice  iu  your  life  !  Pray 


1  1  9  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  "lYIXC. 

go  on  ;  you  are  only  nervous  !"  while  the  side  of  his  face 
not  next  to  Albany  was  distorted  with  laughter  and  ridi- 
cule, Albany,  believing  him,  continued  his  song  ;  andMar- 
maduke,  sitting  a  little  behind  him,  took  off  the  distorted 
expression  of  his  countenance  and  mimicked  his  odd  ac- 
tion. But,  at  this  moment,  the  broadest  splendour  of  the 
setting  sun  threw  its  beams  into  a  large  pier  glass  oppo- 
site, with  such  brightness,  that  Albany's  eyes  were  sudden- 
ly attracted  to  it,  and  thence  to  his  treacherous  neighbour, 
whom  he  detected  in  the  act  of  mimicking  him  in  mouth, 
attitude,  and  expression — while  behind  him  he  saw  some 
of  the  company  laughing  with  a  degree  of  violence  which 
was  all  but  audible  ! 

Albany  paused,  in  speechless  consternation — and  when 
Marmaduke  asked  why  "  he  did  not  go  on,  as  every  one 
was  delighted,"  the  susceptible  old  man  hid  his  face  in  his 
hands,  shocked,  mortified,  and  miserable,  but  taught  and 
enlightened.  Marmaduke  however,  nothing  doubting,  pre- 
sumed to  clap  him  on  the  back,  again  urging  him  to  pro- 
ceed ;  but  the  indignant  Albany,  turning  suddenly  round, 
and  throwing  off  his  arm  with  angry  vehemence,  exclaim- 
ed, in  the  touching  tone  of  wounded  feeling,  "  Oh  !  thou 
serpent,  that  I  would  have  cherished  in  my  bosom,  was  it 
for  thee  to  sting  me  thus  1  But  I  was  an  old  fool  :  and  the 
lesson,  though  a  painful  one,  will,  I  trust  be  salutary." — ■ 
"What  is  all  tins'?  what  do  you  mean  V  faltered  out 
Marmaduke  ;  but  the  rest  of  the  party  had  not  courage 
enough  to  speak  ;  and  many  of  them  rejoiced  in  the  detec- 
tion of  baseness  which,  though  it  amused  their  depraved 
taste,  was  very  offensive  to  their  moral  sense.  "  What, 
does  it  mean'?"  cried  Albany,  "I  appeal  to  all  present  wheth- 
er they  do  not  understand  my  meaning,  and  whether  my  re- 
sentment be  not  just  !" — "  I  hope,  my  dear  friend,  that  you 
acquit  me,"  said  the  distressed  father.—"  Of  all,"  he  replied, 
"  except  of  the  fault  of  not  having  taught  your  son  better 
morals  and  manners.  Young  man!"  he  continued,  "the  next 
time  you  exhibit  any  one  as  your  butt,  take  care  that  you  do 
not  sit  opposite  a  pier  glass.  And  now,  sir,"  addressing  him- 
self to  the  master  of  {be  house,  "let  me  request  to  have  a  post- 
chaise  sent  for  to  the  nearest,  town  directly." — "  Surely, 
you  will  not  leave  us,  in  anger,"  cried  all  the   Musgravcs, 


THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN.  113 

Marmaduke  excepted.  "  I  hope  I  do  not  go  In  auger,  but 
I  cannot  stay,"  cried  he,  "  because  I  have  lost  iny  con- 
fidence in  you."  The  gentleman  o(  the  house,  who  thought 
Albany  right  in  going,  and  wished  to  make  him  all  the 
amends  he  could,  for  having  allowed  Marmaduke  to  turn 
antt  into  ridicule,  interrupted  him,  to  say  that  his  own 
carriage  waited  his  orders,  and  would  convey  him  wither- 
soever he  wished.  "  I  thank  you,  sir,  and  except  your  of- 
fer," he  replied,  "  since  the  sooner  I  quit  this  company, 
in  which  I  have  so  lamentably  exposed  myself,  the  better 
it  will  be  for  you,  and  for  us  all."  Having  said  this,  he 
took  the  agitated  Musgrave  by  the  hand,  bowed  to  his  wife 
and  daughters,  who  hid  their  confusion  under  distant  and 
haughty  airs  ;  then,  stepping  opposite  to  Marmaduke,  who 
felt  it  difficult  to  meet  the  expression  of  that  eye,  on  which 
just  anger  and  a  sense  of  injury  had  bestowed  a  power 
hitherto  unknown  to  it,  he  addressed  him  thus  :  "  Before 
we  part,  I  must  tell  you,  young  man,  that  I  intended,  urg- 
ed, I  humbly  trust,  by  virtuous  considerations,  to  expend 
on  your  maintenance  at  college  a  part  of  that  large  income 
which  I  cannot  spend  on  myself.  I  had  ai<o  given  orders 
to  my  agent  to  purchase  for  me  the  advowson  of  a  living 
now  on  sale,  intending  to  give  it  to  you  ;  here  is  the  letter, 
to  prove  that  I  speak  the  truth  ;  but  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  I  cannot  make  the  fortune  which  was  left  me  by  a"  pi" 
ous  friend  assist  a  youth  to  take  on  himself  the  sacred  pro- 
fession of  a  christian  minister,  who  can  utter  falsehoods,  in 
order  to  betray  a  fellow-creature  into  folly,  utterly  regard- 
less of  that  christian  precept,  "  Do  unto  others  as  "ye  would 
that  others  should  do  unto  you."  He  then  took  leave  of 
the  rest  of  the  company,  and  drove  off,  leaving  the  Mus- 
graves  chagrined  and  ashamed,  and  bitterly  mortified  at 
the  loss  of  the  intended  patronage  to  Marmaduke,  especial- 
ly when  a  gentleman  present  exclaimed,  "  No  doubt,  this  is 
the  Dr.  Albany,  to  whom  Clewes  of  Trinity  left  his  large 
fortune !" 

Albany,  taught  by  his  misadventure  in  this  worldly  and 
treacherous  family,  went,  soon  after,  to  the  abode  of  an- 
other of  his  college  friends,  residing  near  Cheltenham.  He 
expected  to  find  this  gentleman  and  his  family  in  unclouded 
prosperity;  but  they  were  labouring  under  unexpected  adver- 


114  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

sky,  brought  on  them  by  the  villany  of  others  :  he  found  them 
however  bowed  in  lowly  resignation  before  the  inscrutable 
decree.  On  the  pious  son  of  these  reduced,  but  contented, 
parents  he,  in  due  time,  bestowed  the  living  intended  for 
the  treacherous  Marmaduke.  Under  their  roof  he  expe- 
rienced gratitude  which  he  felt  to  be  sincere,  and  affection 
in  which  he  dared  to  confide ;  and,  ultimately,  he  took  up 
his  abode  with  them,  in  a  residence  suited  to  their  early 
prospects  and  his  riches  ;  for  even  the  artless  and  unsus- 
pecting can,  without  danger,  associate  and  sojourn  with 
those  whose  thoughts  and  actions  are  under  the  guidance 
of  religious  principle,  and  who  live  in  this  world  as  if  they 
every  hour  expected  to  be  summoned  away  to  the  judg- 
ment of  a  world  to  come. 


CHAPTER  X. 

LIES  OF  BENEVOLENCE. 

In  a  former  chapter  I  commented  on  those  lies  which 
are,  at  best,  of  a  mixed  nature,  and  are  made  up  of  worldly 
motives,  of  which  fear  and  selfishness  compose  the  principal 
part,  although  the  utterer  of  them  considers  them   as  lies 

OF  BENEVOLENCE. 

Lies  of  real  benevolence  are,  like  most  other  falsehoods, 
various  in  their  species  and  degrees  ;  bqfc,  as  they  are,  how- 
ever in  fact  objectionable,  the  most  amiable  and  respecta- 
ble of  all  lies,  and  seem  so  like  virtue  that  they  may  easily 
be  taken  for  her  children  ;  and  as  the  illustrations  of  them, 
which  I  have  been  enabled  to  give,  are  so  much  more  con- 
nected with  our  tenderest  and  most  solemn  feelings,  than 
those  afforded  by  other  lies  ;  I  thought  it  right  that,  like  the 
principal  figures  in  a  procession,  they  should  bring  up  the 
rear. 

The  lies  which  relations  and  friends  generally  think  it 


LIES  OF  BENEVOLENCE.  115 

their  duty  to  tell  an  unconsciously  dying  person,  are  prompt- 
ed by  real  benevolence,  as  are  those  which  medical  men 
deem  themselves  justified  in  uttering  to  a  dying  patient; 
though,  if  the  person  dying,  or  the  surrounding  friends,  be 
6trictly  religious  characters,  they  must  be,  on  principle,  de- 
rious  that  the  whole  trudi  should  be  told.* 

*  Richard  Pearson,  the  distinguished  author  of  the  life  of 
William  Hey  of  Leeds,  says,  in  that  interesting  book,  p. 
261,  "  Mr.  Hey's  sacred  respect  for  truth,  and  his  regard 
for  the  welfare  of  his  fellow-creatures,  never  permitted  him 
intentionally  to  deceive  his  patients  by  flattering  represen- 
tations of  their  state  of  health,  by  assurances  of  the  exis-> 
tance  of  no  danger,  when  he  conceived  their  situation  to  be 
hopeless,  or  even  greatly  hazardous.  "  The  duty  of  a  med- 
ical attendant,"  continues  he,  "  in  such  delicate  situations, 
has  been  a  subject  of  considerable  embarrassment  to  men 
of  integrity  and  conscience,  who  view  the  uttering  of  a 
falsehood  as  a  crime,  and  the  practice  of  deceit  as  repug- 
nant to  the  spirit  of  Christianity.  That  a  sacrifice  of  truth 
may  sometimes  contribute  to  the  comfort  of  a  patient,  and 
be  medicinally  beneficial,  is  not  denied ;  but  that  a  wilful 
and  deliberate  falsehood  can,  in  any  case,  be  justifiable  be- 
fore God,  is  a  maxim  not  to  be  lightly  admitted.  The 
question  may  be  stated  duis  :  Is  it  justifiable  for  a  man  de- 
liberately to  violate  a  moral  precept  of  the  law  of  God, 
from  a  motive  of  prudence  and  humanity  ?  If  Uiis  be 
affirmed,  it  must  be  admitted  that  it  would  be  no  less  jus- 
tifiable to  infringe  the  laws  of  his  country  from  similar  mo- 
tives; and,  consequently,  it  would  be  an  act  of  injustice  to 
punish  him  for  such  a  transgression.  But,  will  it  be  con- 
tended, that  the  divine,  or  even  the  human  legislature,  must 
be  subjected  to  the  control  of  tliis  sort  of  casuistry  1  If 
falsehood,  under  these  circumstances,  be  no  crime,  then, 
as  no  detriment  can  result  from  uttering  it,  very  little  mer- 
it can  be  attached  to  so  light  a  sacrifice  ;  whereas,  if  it 
were  presumsed  that  some  guilt  were  incurred,  and  that 
the  physician  voluntarily  exposed  himself  to  the  danger  of 
luture  Buffering,  for  the  sake  of  procuring  temporary 
benefit  to  his  patient,  he  would  have  a  high  claim  uDon  the 


116  ILLUSTRATIONS     OF    LYING. 

Methinks  I  hear  some  of  my  readers  exclaim,  can  any 
suppose  it  a  duty  to  run  the  risk  of  killing  friends  or  rela- 
tions, by  telling  the  whole  truth  ;  that  is,  informing  them 
that  they  are  dying  !  But,  if  the  patients  be  not  really  dy- 
ing, or  in  danger,  no  risk  is  incured ;  and  if  they  be  near 
death,  which  is  of  the  most  importance  to  consider, — their 
momentary  quiet  here,  or  their  interests  hereafter  1  Besides, 
many  of  those  persons  who  would  think  that,  for  spiritu- 
al reasons  merely,  a  disclosure  of  the  truth  was  improper, 
and  who  declare  that,  on  such  occasions,  falsehood  is  vir- 
tue, and  concealment,  humanity,  would  hold  a  different 
language,  and  act  differently,  were  the  unconsciously-dying 
person  one  who  was  known  not  to  have  made  a  will,  and 

gratitude  of  those  who  derive  the   advantage.      But,  is   it 
quite  clear  that  pure  benevolence  commonly   suggests  the 
deviation  from  truth,  and  that  neither  the  low  consideration 
of  conciliating  favour,  nor  the  view  of  escaping  censure, 
and  promoting  his  own  interest,  have  any  share  in  prompt- 
ing him  to  adopt  the  measure  he  defends  1      To  assist  in 
this  enquiry,  let  a  man  ask  himself  whether  he  carries  this 
caution,  and  shows  this  kindness,  indiscriminately  on  all 
occasions  ;  being  as  fearful  of  giving  pain,  by  exciting  ap- 
prehension in  the  mind  of  the  poor,  as  of  the  rich  ;  of  the 
meanest,  as  of  the  most  elevated  rank.      Suppose  it  can  be 
shown  that  these  humane  falsehoods  are  distributed  pro- 
miscuously, it  may  be  inquired  further,  whether,  if  such  a 
proceeding  were  a  manifest  breach  of  a  municipal  law,  ex- 
posing the  delinquent  to  suffer  a  very  inconvenient  and  se- 
rious punishment,  a  medical  adviser  would  feel  himself 
obliged  to  expose  his  person  or  his  estate  to  penal  conse- 
quences, whenever  the  circumstances  of  his  patient  should 
seem  to  require  the  intervention  of  a  falsehood.     It  may  be 
presumed,  without  any  breach  of  charity,  that  a  demur 
would  frequently,  perhaps  generally,  be   interposed  on  the 
occasion  of  such  a  requisition.     But,  surely,  the  laws  of  the 
Moral  Governor  of  the  universe  are  not  to  be  esteemed  less 
sacred,  and  a  transgression  of  them  less  important  in  its 
consequences,  than  the  violation  of  a  civil  statute  ;  nor 
ought  the  fear  of  God  to  be  less  powerful  in  deterring  men 


LIES  OF  BENEVOLENCE.  117 

who  had  considerable  properly  to  dispose  of.  Then, 
consideration  for  their  own  temporal  interests,  or  for  those 
of  others,  would  probably  make  them  advise  or  adopt  a 
contrary  proceeding.  Yet,  who  that  seriously  reflects  can, 
for  a  moment,  put  worldly  interest  in  any  comparison  with 
those  of  a  spiritual  nature  1  But,  perhaps,  an  undue  pre- 
ference of  worldly  over  spiritual  interests  might  not  be  the 
leading  motive  to  tell  the  truth  in  ihe  one  case,  and  with- 
hold it  in  the  other.  The  person  in  question  would  proba- 
bly he  influenced  by  the  conviction  satisfactory  to  them,  but 
awfully  erroneous  in  my  apprehension,  that  a  death-bed  re- 
pentance, and  death-bed  supplication,  must  be  wholly  una- 
vailing for  the  soul  of  the  departing  ;  that,  as  the  sufferer's 
work,  for  himself,  is  wholly  done,  and  his  fate  fixed  for  lime, 
and  for  eternity,  it  were  needless  cruelty  to  let  him  know 
his  end  was  approaching  ;  but,  that  as  his  work  for  others 
is  not  done,  if  he  has  not  made  a  testamentary  disposal  of  his 
property,  it  is  a  duty  to  urge  him  to  make  a  will,  even  at 
all  risk,  to  himself. 

My  own  opinion,  which  I  give  with  great  humility,  is, 
that  the  truth  is  never  to  be  violated  or  withheld,  in  order 
to  deceive  ;  but  I  know  myself  to  be  in  such  a  painful  mi- 
nority pn  this  subject,  that  I  almost  doubt  the  correctness 
of  my  own  judgment. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  that  lies  of  Benevolence  are  more 
frequently  passive,  than  active, — are  more  frequently  in- 
stanced in  withholding  and  concealing  the  truth,  than  in  di- 

from  the  committing  of  a  crime,  than  the  fear  of  a  magis- 
trate. Those  who  contend  for  the  necessity  of  violating 
truth,  that  they  may  benefit  their  patients,  place  themselves 
l)etween  two  conflicting  rules  of  morality  ;  their  obligation 
to  obey  the  command  of  God,  and  their  presumed  duty  to 
their  neighbour  :  or,  in  other  words,  they  are  supposed  to 
De  brought  by  the  Divine  Providence  into  this  distressing 
alternative  of  necessarily  sinning  against  God  or  in  their 
fellow-creatures.  When  a  moral  and  a  positive  duty  stand 
opposed  to  each  other,  the  Holy  Scriptures  have  determin- 
ed that  ol^edience  to  the  former  is  to  be  preserved,  befbro 
compliance  with  the  latter." 


118  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

rect  spontaneous  lying.  There  is  one  instance  of  withhold- 
ing and  concealing  the  truth  from  motives  of  mistaken  be- 
nevolence, which  is  so  common,  and  so  pernicious,  that  I 
feel  it  particularly  necessary  to  hold  it  up  to  severe  repre- 
hensions. It  is  withholding  or  speaking  only  half  the  truth 
in  giving  the  character  of  a  servant. 

Many  persons,  from  reluctance  to  injure  the  interests 
even  of  very  unworthy  servants,  never  give  the  whole  char- 
acter unless  it  be  required  of  them,  and  then  rather  than 
tell  a  positive  lie  they  disclose  the  whole  truth.  But  are 
they  not  lying,  that  is,  are  they  not  meaning  to  deceive, 
when  they  toithhold  the  truth  1 

When  I  speak  to  ladies  and  gentlemen  respecting  the 
character  of  a  servant,  I  of  course  conclude  that  I  am 
speaking  to  honourable  persons.  I  therefore  expect  that 
they  should  give  a  correct  character  of  the  doinestick  in 
question  ;  and  should  I  omit  to  ask  wether  he,  or  she,  be 
honest,  or  sober,  I  require  that  information  on  these  points 
should  be  given  me  unreservedly.  They  must  leave  me  to 
judge  whether  I  will  run  the  risk  of  hiring  a  drunkard,  a 
thief,  or  a  servant  otherwise  ill-disposed  ;  but  they  would 
be  dishonourable  if  they  betrayed  me  into  receiving  into  my 
family,  to  the  risk  of  my  domestick  peace,  or  my  property, 
those  who  are  addicted  to  dishonest  practices,  or  are  oth- 
erwise of  immoral  habits.  Besides  what  are  erroneous 
and  bounded  benevolence  this  conduct  exhibits  !  If  it  be 
benevolent  towards  the  servant  whom  I  hire,  it  is  manev- 
olent  towards  me,  and  unjust  also.  True  christian  kind- 
ness is  just  and  impartial  in  its  dealings,  and  never  serves 
even  a  friend  at  the  expense  of  a  third  person.  But,  the 
masters  and  mistressess,  wno  thus  do  what  they  call  a  be- 
nevolent action  at  the  sacrifice  of  truth  and  integrity,  often, 
no  doubt,  find  their  sin  visited  on  their  own  heads ;  for 
they  are  not  likely  to  have  trust-worthy  servants.  If  ser- 
vants know  that,  owing  to  the  sinful  kindness  and  lax  mo- 
rality of  their  employers,  their  faults  will  not  receive  their 
proper  punishment-that  of  disclosure,- when  they  are  turned 
away,  one  of  the  most  powerful  motives  to  behave  well  is 
removed ;  for  those  are  not  likely  to  abstain  from  sin,  who 
are  sure  that  they  shall  sin  with  impunity.  Thus,  then, 
the  master  or  mistress  who,  in  mistaken  kindness  conceals 


LfES  OP  BENEVOLENCE.  119 

the  fault  of  a  single  servant,  leads  the  rest  of  the  household 
into  the  temptation  of  sinning  also  ;  and  what  is  fancied  to 
be  benevolent  to  one  becomes,  in  its  consequences,  injurious 
to  many.  But,  let  us  now  see  what  is  the  probable  effect 
on  the  servant  so  skreened  and  befriended  1  They  are  in- 
stantly exposed,  by  this  withholding  of  the  truth,  to  the 
perils  of  temptation.  Nothing,  perhaps,  can  be  more  ben- 
eficial to  culprits,  of  all  descriptions,  than  to  be  allowed  to 
take  the  immediate  consequences  of  their  offences,  provid- 
ed those  consequences  stop  short  of  death,  that  most  awful  of 
punishments,  because  it  cuts  the  offender  off  from  all  means 
of  amendment ;  therefore  it  were  better  for  the  interests  of 
servants,  in  every  point  of  view,  to  let  them  abide  by  the 
certainty  of  not  getting  a  new  place,  because  they  cannot 
have  a  character  from  their  last  :  by  this  means  the  hu- 
mane wish  to  punish,  in  order  to  save,  would  be  gratified, 
and,  consequently,  if  the  truth  was  always  told  on  occa- 
sions of  this  nature,  the  feelings  of  real  benevolence 
would,  in  the  end,  be  gratified.  But,  if  good  characters 
are  given  with  servants,  or  incomplete  characters,  that  is, 
if  their  good  qualities  are  mentioned,  and  their  bad  with- 
held, the  consequences  to  the  beings  so  mistakenly  befriend- 
ed may  be  of  the  most  fatal  nature  ;  for,  if  ignorant  of 
their  besetting  sin,  the  heads  of  the  family  cannot  guard 
against  it,  but,  unconsciously,  may  every  hour  put  tempta- 
tions in  their  way  ;  while  on  the  contrary,  had  they  been 
made  acquainted  with  that  besetting  sin  they  would 
have  taken  care  never  to  have  risked  its  being  called  into 
action. 

But  who,  it  may  be  asked,  would  hire  servants,  knowing 
that  they  had  any  "  besetting  sins  V 

I  trust  that  there  are  many  who  would  do  this  from  the 
pious  and  benevolent  motive  of  saving  them  from  further 
destruction,  especially  if  penitence  had  been  satisfactorily 
manifested. 

I  will  now  endeavour  to  illustrate  some  of  my  post 
tions  by  the  following  story. 


120  ILrLtTBTRATlOxNS  OP  LYING. 

CHAPTER   X.      CONTINUED. 

MISTAKEN  KINDNESS. 

Ann  Belson  had  lived  in  a  respectable  merchant's  fami- 
ly, of  the  name  of  Melbourne,  for  many  years,  and  had  ac- 
quitted herself  to  the  satisfaction  of  her  employers  in  the 
successive  capacities  of  nurse,  house-maid,  and  lady's-maid. 
But  it  was  at  length  discovered  that  she  had  long  been  ad- 
dicted to  petty  pilfering ;  and,  being  emboldened  by  past 
impunity,  she  purloined  some  valuable  lace,  and  was  detect- 
ed :  but  her  kind  master  and  mistress  could  not  prevail  on 
themselves  to  give  up  the  tender  nurse  of  their  children  to 
the  just  rigour  of  the  law,  and  as  their  children  themselves 
could  not  bear  to  have  "  poor  Ann  sent  to  gaol,''  they  re- 
solved to  punish  her  in  no  other  manner,  than  by  turning 
her  away  without  a  character,  as  the  common  phraise  is. 
I  hit  without  a  character  she  could  not  procure  another  ser- 
vice, and  might  be  thus  consigned  to  misery  and  ruin.  This 
idea  was  insupportable  !  However  she  might  deserve  pun- 
ishment they  shrunk  from  inflicting  it !  and  they  resolved 
to  keep  Ann  Belson  themselves,  as  they  could  not  recom- 
mend her  conscientiously  to  any  one  else.  This  was  a 
truly  benevolent  action  ;  because,  if  she  continued  to  sin, 
they  alone  were  exposed  to  suffer  from  her  fault.  But 
they  virtuously  resolved  to  put  no  further  temptation  in  her 
way,  and  to  guard  her  against  herse4f,  by  unremitting  vigi- 
lance. 

During  the  four  succeeding  years,  Ann  Belson 's  honesty 
was  so  entirely  without  a  stain,  that  her  benevolent 
friends  were  convinced  that  her  penitence  was  sincere,  and 
congratulated  themselves  that  they  had  treated  her  with 
such  lenity. 

At  this  period  the  pressure  of  the  times,  and  losses  in 
trade,  produced  a  change  in  the  circumstances  of  the  Mel- 
bournes  ;  and  retrenchment  became  necessary.  They,  there- 


MISTAKEN    KINDNESS.  121 

fore,  felt  it  right  to  discharge  some  of  their  servants,  and 
particularly  the  lady's  maid. 

The  grateful  Ann  would  not  hear  of  tbia  dismissal.  She 
insisted  on  remaining  on  any  terms,  and  in  any  situation; 
nay  she  declared  her  willingness  to  live  with  her  indulgent 
friends  for  nothing ;  but,  as  they  were  too  generous  to  ac- 
cept her  services  at  so  great  a  disadvantage  to  herself,  es- 
pecially as  she  had  poor  relations  to  maintain,  they  resolv- 
ed to  procure  her  a  situation  ;  and  having  heard  of  a  very 
advantageous  one,  for  which  she  was  admirably  calculated, 
they  insisted  on  her  trying  to  procure  it. 

"  But  what  shall  we  do,  my  dear,"  said  the  wife  to  the 
husband,  "  concerning  Ann's  character  1  Must  we  tell  the 
whole  truth  1  As  she  has  been  uniformly  honest  during  the 
last  four  years,  should  we  not  be  justified  in  concealing  her 
fault  V — "  Yes  ;  I  think,  at  least,  I  hope  so,"  replied  he. 
"  Still,  as  she  was  dishonest  more  years  than  she  has  now 
been  honest,  1  really  ....  I  ....  it  is  a 
very  puzzling  question,  Charlotte  ;  and  I  am  but  a  weak 
casuist."  A  strong  christian  might  not  have  felt  the  point 
so  difficult.  But  the  Melbournes  had  not  studied  seri- 
ous things  deeply ;  and  the  result  of  the  consultation  was, 
that  Ann  Belson's  past  faults  should  be  concealed,  if  pos- 
sible. 

And  possible  it  was.  Lady  Baryton,  the  young  and  no- 
ble bride  who  wished  to  hire  her,  was  a  thoughtless, 
careless  woman  of  fashion ;  and  as  she  learned  that  Ann 
could  make  dresses,  and  dress  hair  to  admiration,  she  made 
few  other  inquiries  ;  and  Ann  was  installed  in  her  new 
place. 

It  was,  alas  !  the  most  improper  of  places,  even  for  a 
sincere  penitent,  like  Ann  Belson  ;  for  it  was  a  place  of 
the  most  dangerous  trust.  Jewels,  laces,  ornaments  of  all 
kinds,  were  not  only  continually  exposed  to  her  eyes,  but 
placed  under  her  especial  care.  Not  those  alone.  When 
her  lady  returned  home  from  a  run  of  good  luck  at  loo,  a 
reticule,  containing  bank-notes  and  sovereigns,  was  empit- 
ed  into  an  unlocked  drawer  ;  and  Ann  was  told  how  for- 
tunate her  lady  had  been.  The  first  time  that  this  heedless 
woman  acted  thus,  the  poor  Ann  begged  she  would  lock  up 
her  money.    "  Not  I ;  k  is  too  much  trouble;  and  ub^y 


122  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYING. 


should  1 1" — cc  Because,  my  lady,  it  is  not  right  to  leave  mo- 
ney about  ;  it  may  be  stolen." — '*  Nonsense  !  who  should 
steal  it  1  I  know  you  must  be  honest ;  the  Melbourne 
gave  you  such  a  high  character."  Here  Ann  turned  away 
in  agony  and  confusion.  "  But,  my  lady,  the  other  ser- 
vants," she  resumed  in  a  faint  voice.  "  Pray  what  busi- 
ness have  the  other  servants  at  my  drawers  1 — However, 
do  you  lock  up  the  drawer,  and  keep  the  key." — "  No  ; 
keep  it  yourself,  my  lady." — "  What,  I  go  about  with 
keys,  like  a  house-keeper  1  Take  it  I  say  !"  Then  fling- 
ing the  key  down,  she  went  singing  out  of  the  room,  little 
thinking  to  what  peril,  temporal  and  spiritual,  she  was 
exposing  a  helpless  fellow-creature. 

For  some  minutes  after  this  new  danger  had  opened 
upon  her,  Ann  set  leaning  on  her  hands,  absorbed  in  pain- 
ful meditation,  and  communing  seriously  with  her  own 
heart ;  nay,  she  even  prayed  for  a  few  moments  to  be  de- 
livered from  evil ;  but  the  next  minute  she  was  ashamed 
of  her  own  self-distrust,  and  tried  to  resume  her  business 
with  her  usual  alacrity. 

A  few  evenings  afterwards,  her  lady  brought  her  reticule 
home,  and  gave  it  to  Ann,  filled  as  before.  "  I  conclude, 
my  lady,  you  know  how  much  money  is  in  this  purse." — 
"  I  did  know  ;  but  I  have  forgotten." — "  Then  let  me  tell 
it." — "  No,  no  ;  nonsense  !"  she  replied  as  she  left  the 
room ;  "  lock  it  up,  and  then  it  will  be  safe,  you  know,  as 
I  can  trust  you."'  Ann  sighed  deeply,  but  repeated  within 
herself,  "  Yes,  yes  ;  I  am  certainly  now  to  be  trusted;" 
but,  as  she  said  this,  she  saw  two  sovereigns  on  the  carpet, 
which  she  had  dropped  out  of  the  reticule  in  emptying  it, 
and  had  locked  the  drawer  without  perceiving.  Ann  felt 
fluttered  when  she  discovered  them ;  but  taking  them  up, 
resolutely  felt  for  the  key  to  add  them  to  the  others ; — but 
the  image  of  her  recently  widowed  sister,  and  her  large  des- 
titute family,  rose  before  her,  and  she  thought  she  would 
not  return  them,  but  ask  her  lady  to  give  them  to  the  poor 
widow.  But,  then,  her  lady  had  already  been  very  boun- 
tiful to  her,  and  she  would  not  ask  her ;  however,  she  would 
consider  the  matter,  and  it  seemed  as  it  if  was  intended  she 
should  have  the  sovereigns  ;  for  they  were  separated  from 
the  rest,  as  if  for  her.    Alas  t  it  would  have  been  safer 


MISTAKEN  KINDNESS.  123 

for  her  to  believe  that  they  were  left  there  as  a  snare  to 
try  her  penitence,  and  her  faith  ;  but  she  took  a  different 
view  of  it ;  she  picked  up  the  gold,  then  laid  it  down;  and 
long  and  severe  was  the  conflict  in  her  heart  between  good 
and  evil. 

We  weep  over  the  woes  of  romance  ;  we  shed  well-motived 
tears  over  the  sorrows  of  real  life  ;  but,  where  is  the  fiction, 
however  highly  wrought,  and  where  the  sorrows,  however 
acute,  that  can  deserve  our  pity  and  our  sympathy  so  strong- 
ly, as  the  agony  and  conflicts  of  a  penitent,  yet  tempted 
soul!  Of  a  soul  that  has  turned  to  virtue,  but  is  forcibly 
pulled  back  again  to  vice, — that  knows  its  own  danger, 
without  power  to  hurry  from  it ;  till,  fascinated  by  the  glit- 
tering bait,  as  the  bird  by  the  rattlesnake,  it  yields  to  its 
fatal  allurements,  regardless  of  consequences  !  It  was  not 
without  many  a  heartach,  many  a  struggle,  that  Ann  Belson 
gave  way  to  the  temptation,  and  put  the  gold  in  her  pock- 
et ;  and  when  she  had  done  so,  she  was  told  her  sister  was 
ill,  and  had  sent  to  beg  she  would  come  to  her,  late  as  it 
was.  Accordingly,  when  her  lady  was  in  bed  she  obtain- 
ed leave  to  go  to  her,  and  while  she  relieved  her  sister's 
wants  with  the  two  purloined  sovereigns,  the  poor  thing  al- 
most fancied  that  she  had  done  a  good  action  !  Oh  !  never 
is  sin  so  dangerous  as  when  it  has  allured  us  in  the  shape 
of  a  deed  of  benevolence.  It  had  so  allured  the  Mel- 
bournes  when  they  concealed  Ann's  faults  from  Lady 
Baryton  ;  and  its  bitter  fruits  were  only  too  fast  prepar- 
ing." 

"  Ce  ii'cst  que  le  premier  pas  qui  coute  ;"  says  the 
proverb,  or  "  the  first  step  is  the  only  difficult  one."  The 
next  time  her  lady  brought  her  winnings  to  her,  Ann  pur- 
sued a  new  plan  :  she  insisted  on  telling  the  money  over  ; 
but  took  care  to  make  it  less  then  it  was,  by  two  or  three 
pounds.  Not  long  after,  she  told  Lady  Baryton  that  she 
must  have  a  new  lock  put  on  the  drawer  that  lit  Id  the  mon- 
ey, as  she  had  certainly  dropped  the  key  somewhere ;  and 
that,  before  she  missed  it,  some  one,  she  was  sure,  had 
been  trying  at  the  lock  ;  for  it  was  evidently  hampered  the 
last  time  6he  unlocked  it.  "  Well,  then,  get  a  new  lock," 
replied  her  careless  mistress  ;  "  however,  let  the  drawei 
be  (breed  now  ;  and  then  we  had  better  tell  over  the  mon- 


124  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

ey.  The  drawer  was  forced  ;  they  told  the  money ;  and 
even  Lady  Baryton  was  conscious  that  some  of  it  was  mis- 
sing. But,  the  missing  key,  an  hampered  lock,  exonerat- 
ed Ann  from  suspicion  ;  especially  as  Ann  owned  that  6he 
had  discovered  the  loss  before ;  and  declared  that,  had 
not  her  lady  insisted  on  telling  over  the  money,  she  had  in- 
tended to  replace  it  gradually  ;  because  she  felt  herself  res- 
ponsible :  while  Lady  Baryton,  satisfied  and  deceived,  rec- 
ommended her  to  be  on  the  watch  for  the  thief ;  and  soon 
forgot  the  whole  circumstance. 

Lady  Baryton  thought  herself,  and  perhaps  she  was  a 
woman  of  feeling.  She  never  read  the  Old-Bailey  convic- 
tions without  mourning  over  the  prisoners  condemned  to 
death  ;  and  never  read  an  account  of  an  execution  without 
thuddering.  Still,  from  want  of  reflection,  and  a  high- 
principled  sense  of  what  we  owe  to  others,  especially  to 
those  who  are  the  members  of  our  own  household,  she  nev- 
er for  one  moment  troubled  herself  to  remember  that  she 
was  daily  throwing  temptations  in  the  way  of  a  servant  to 
commit  the  very  faults  which  led  those  convicts,  whom  she 
pitied,  to  the  fate  which  she  deplored.  Alas!  what  have 
those  persons  to  answer  for,  in  every  situation  of  life, 
who  consider  their  dependants  and  servants  merely  as  such, 
without  remembering  that  they  are,  like  themselves,  heirs 
•  if  the  invisible  world  to  come;  and  that,  if  they  take  no 
pains  to  enlighten  their  minds,  in  order  to  save  their  im- 
mortal souls,  they  should,  at  least  be  careful  never  to  endari' 
ger  them. 

In  a  few  weeks  after  the  dialogue  given  above,  Lady 
Baryton  bought  some  strings  of  pearls  at  an  India  sale  ; 
and  having  on  her  way  thence,  shown  them  to  her  jewel- 
ler, that  he  might  count  them,  and  see  if  there  were  enough 
to  make  her  a  pair  of  bracelets,  she  brought  them  home, 
t.ecause  she  could  not  afford  proper  clasps  to  fasten  them  ; 
Hnd  these  were  committed  to  Ann's  care.  But,  as  Lord 
Baryton,  the  next  week,  gave  his  lady  a  pair  of  diamond 
clasps,  she  sent  the  pearls  to  be  made  up  immediately.  In 
the  evening,  however,  the  jeweller  came  to  tell  her  that 
there  were  two  strings  less  than  when  she  brought  them 
l>efore.  "  Then  they  must  have  been  stolen  !"  she 
exclaimed !  "  and  now  I  remember  that  Belson  told  me 


MISTAKEN  KINDNESS.  125 

she  was  sure  tlieie  was  a  thief  in  the  house." — "  Are  you 
sure,"  said  Lord  Baryton,  "  that  Belson  is  not  the  thief 
herself  1" — "  Impossible  !  I  had  such  a  character  ofher  ! 
and  I  have  trusted  her  implicitly  !" — "  It  is  not  right  to 
tempt  even  the  most  honest,"  replied  Lord  Baryton  ;  "  but 
we  must  have  strict  search  made  ;  and  all  the  servants  must 
be  examined." 

They  were  so  ;  but,  as  Ann  Belson  was  not  a  hardened 
offender,  she  soon  betrayed  herself  by  her  evident  misery 
and  terror;  and  was  committed  to  prison  on  her  own  full 
confession  ;  but  she  could  not  help  exclaiming,  in  the  ag- 
ony of  her  heart,  "  Oh,  my  lady  !  remember  that  I  con- 
jured you  not  to  trust  me  !"  and  Lady  Baryton's  heart  re- 
proached her,  at  least  for  some  hours.  There  were  other 
hearts  also  that  experienced  self-reproach,  and  of  a  far  lon- 
ger duration  ;  for  the  Melbournes,  when  they  heard  what 
had  happened,  saw  that  the  seeming  benevolence  of  their 
concealment  had  been  a  real  injury,  and  had  ruined  her 
whom  they  meant  to  save.  They  saw  that,  had  they  told 
Lady  Baryton  the  truth,  that  lady  would  either  not  have 
hired  her,  in  spite  of  her  skill,  or  she  would  have  taken 
care  not  to  put  her  in  situations  calculated  to  tempt  her 
cupidity.  But,  neither  Lady  Baryton's  regrets,  nor  self- 
reproach,  nor  the  greater  agonies  of  the  Melbournes,  could 
alter  or  avert  the  course  of  justice  ;  and  Ann  Belson  was 
condemned  to  death.  She  was,  however,  strongly  recom- 
mended to  mercy,  both  by  the  jury  and  the  noble  prosecu- 
tor ;  and  her  conduct  in  prison  was  so  exemplary,  so  indica- 
tive of  the  deep  contrition  of  a  trembling,  humble  christian, 
that,  at  length,  the  intercession  was  not  in  vain  ;  and  the 
Melbournes  had  the  comfort  of  carrying  to  her  what  was  to 
them,  at  least,  joyful  news  ;  namely,  that  her  sentence  was 
commuted  for  transportation. 

Yet,  even  this  mercy  was  a  severe  trial  to  the  self-judg- 
ed Melbournes  ;  since  they  had  the  misery  of  seeing  the  af- 
fectionate nurse  of  their  children,  the  being  endeared  to 
them  by  many  years  of  active  services,  torn  from  all  the 
tender  ties  of  existence,  and  exiled  for  life,  as  a  felon  to  a 
distant  land  !  exiled  too  for  a  crime  which,  had  they  per- 
formed their  social  duty,  she  might  never  have  commit- 
ted.    But  tlie  pain  of  mind  which  they  endured  on  this 


126  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

lamentable  occasion  was  not  thrown  away  on  them  ;  as  it 
awakened  them  to  serious  reflection  :  they  learned  to  re- 
member, and  to  teach  their  children  to  remember,  the  holy 
command,  "  that  we  are  not  to  do  evil,  that  good  may 
come  ;"  and  that  no  deviation  from  truth  and  ingenuous- 
ness can  be  justified,  even  if  it  claims  for  itself  the  plau- 
sible title  of  the  active  or  passive  lie  of  benevo- 
lence. 

There  is  another  species  of  withholding  the  truth  which 
springs  from  so  amiable  a  source,  and  is  so  often  practised 
even  by  pious  christians,  that,  while  I  venture  to  say  it  is 
at  variance  with  reliance  on  the  wisdom  and  mercy  of 
the  Creator,  I  do  so  with  reluctant  awe.  I  mean  a  con- 
cealment of  the  whole  extent  of  a  calamity  from  the  per- 
son afflicted,  lest  the  blow  should  fall  too  heavily  upon 
them. 

I  would  ask,  whether  such  conduct  be  nut  inconsistent 
with  the  belief  that  trials  are  mercies  in  disguise  1  that  the 
Almighty  "  loveth  those  whom  he  chasteneth,  and  scourgeth 
every  son  that  he  receiveth  V 

If  this  assurance  be  true,  we  set  our  own  judgment 
against  that  of  the  Deity,  by  concealing  from  the  sufferer  the 
extent  of  the  trial  inflicted  :  and  seem  to  believe  ourselves 
more  capable  than  he  is  to  determine  the  quantity  of  suf- 
fering that  is  good  for  the  person  so  visited  ;  and  we  set  up 
ouv  finite  against  infinite  wisdom. 

There  are  other  reasons,  besides  religious  ones,  why 
this  sort  of  deceit  should  no  more  be  practised  than  any 
other. 

The  motive  for  withholding  the  whole  truth,  on  these  oc- 
casions, is  to  do  good  :  but  will  the  desired  good  be  effect- 
ed by  this  opposition  to  the  Creator's  revealed  will  to- 
wards the  sufferer  1  Is  it  certain  that  good  will  be  perform- 
ed at  all,  or  that  concealment  is  necessary  "? 

What  is  the  reason  given  for  concealing  half  the  truth  1 
Fear,  lest  the  whole  would  be  more  than  the  sufferer  could 
bear ;  which  implies  that  it  is  already  mighty,  to  an  awful 
degree.  Then,  surely,  a  degree  more  of  suffering,  at  such 
a  moment,  cannot  possess  much  added  power  to  destroy  ; 
and  if  the  trial  be  allowed  to  come  in  its  full  force,  the  mind 
Of  the  victim  will  make  exactly  the  same  efforts  as  minds 


MISTAKEN    KINDNESS.  127 

always  do  when  oppressed  by  misery.  A  state  of  heavy 
affliction  is  so  repulsive  to  the  feelings,  that  even  in  the  first 
paroxysms  of  it  we  all  make  efforts  to  get  away  from  undei- 
its  weight;  and,  in  proof  cf  this  assertion,  I  ask,  whether 
we  do  not  always  find  die  afflicted  less  cast  down  than  we 
expected  ?  The  religions  pray  as  well  as  weep  :  the 
merely  moral  look  around  for  consolation  here,  and,  as  a 
dog,  when  cast  into  the  sea,  as  soon  as  he  rises  and  regains 
his  breath,  strikes  out  his  feet,  in  order  to  floaty  securely 
upon  the  waves ;  so,  be  their  sorrows  great  or  small,  all 
persons  instantly  strive  to  find  support  somewhere ;  and 
they  do  find  it,  while  ill  proportion  to  the  depth  of  the  af- 
fliction is  often  the  subsequent  rebound. 

I  could  point  out  instances  (but  I  shall  leave  my  rea- 
ders to  imagine  them)  in  which,  by  concealing  from  the 
bereaved  sufferers  the  most  affecting  part  of  the  truth,  we 
stand  between  them  and  the  balm  derived  from  that  very 
incident  which  was  mercifully  intended  to  heal  their 
wounds. 

I  also  object  to  such  concealment ;  because  it  entails 
upon  those  who  are  guilty  of  it  a  series  of  falsehoods  ; 
falsehoods  too,  which  are  often  fruitlessly  uttered ;  since 
the  object  of  them  is  apt  to  suspect  deceit,  and  endure  that 
restless  agonizing  suspicion,  which  those  who  have  ever 
experienced  it  could  never  inflict  on  the  objects  of  their 
love. 

Besides,  religion  and  reason  enables  us,  in  time,  to  bear 
the  calamity  of  which  we  knew  the  extent ;  but  we  are  al- 
ways on  the  watch  to  find  out  that  which  we  only  suspect, 
and  the  mind's  strength,  frittered  away  in  vain  and  varied 
conjectures,  runs  the  risk  of  sinking  beneath  the  force  of  its 
own  indistinct  fears. 

Confidence  too  in  those  dear  friends  whom  we  trusted  be- 
fore is  liable  to  be  entirely  destroyed  ;  and,  in  all  its  bear- 
ings, this  wc\\-intentioned  departure  from  truth  is  preg- 
nant with  mischief. 

Lastly,  I  object  to  such  concealment,  from  a  conviction 
that  its  continuance  is  impossible;  for,  some  time  or 
other,  the  whole  truth  is  revealed  at  a  moment  when  the  suf- 
ferers are  not  so  well  able  to  bear  it  as  they  were  in  the 
first  paroxysms  of  grief. 


128  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

In  this,  my  next  and  last  tale,  I  give  another  illustration 
of  those  amiable,  but  pernicious  lies,  the  LiF"  of  real 
BENEVOLEHCE. 


THE  FATHER  AND  SON. 

"  Well,  then,  thou  art  willing  that  Edgar  should  go  to  a 
public  school,"  said  the  vicar  of  a  small  parish  in  West- 
moreland to  his  weeping  wife.  "  Quite  willing." — "  And 
yet  thou  art  in  tears,  Susan  1" — "  I  weep  for  his  faults; 
and  not  becase  he  is  to  quit  us.  I  grieve  to  think  he  is  so 
disobedient  and  unruly  that  we  can  manage  him  at  home 
no  longer. — And  yet  I  loved  him  so  dearly  !  so  much  more 
than  .  .  .  ."  Here  her  sobs  redoubled  ;  and,  as  Ver- 
non rested  her  aching  head  on  his  bosom,  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  Aye  ;  and  so  did  I  love  him,  even  better  then  our 
other  children  ;  and  therefore,  probably,  our  injustice  is 
thus  visited.  But,  he  is  so  clever  !  He  learned  more  Lat- 
in in  a  week  than  his  brothers  in  a  month  !" — "  And  he  is 
so  beautiful .'"  observed  his  mother.  "  And  so  gener- 
ous !"  rejoined  his  father  ;  "  but,  cheer  up,  my  beloved  ; 
under  stricter  discipline  than  ours  he  may  yet  do  well,  and 
turn  out  all  we  could  wish." — "  I  hope,  however,"  replied 
the  fond  mother,  "  that  his  master  will  not  be  very  severe  ; 
and  I  will  try  to  look  forward."  As  she  said  this  she  left  her 
husband  with  something  like  comfort ;  for  a  tender  moth- 
er's hopes  for  a  darling  child  are  easily  revived,  and  she 
went,  with  recovered  calmness,  to  get  her  son's  wardrobe 
ready  against  the  day  of  his  departure.  The  equally  affec- 
tionate father  meanwhile  called  his  son  into  the  study,  to 
prepare  his  mind  for  that  parting  which  his  undutiful  con- 
duct had  made  unavoidable. 

But  Vernon  found  that  Edgar's  mind  required  no 
preparation  j  that  the  idea  of  change  was  delightful  to  his 
volatile  nature  ;  and  that  he  panted  to  distinguish  himself 


THE    FATHER  AND    fcOTT.  129 

on  a  wider  field  of  action  thnn  a  small  retired  village  afford- 
ed to  his  daring,  restless  spirit;  while  his  father  saw  with 
noonV»  which  he  could  hut  ill  conceal,  that  this  desire  of 
entering  into  a  new  situation  had  power  to  annihilate  all  re- 
gret at  leaving  the  tenderest  of  parents  and  the  companion? 
of  his  childhood. 

However,  his  feelings  were  a  little  soothed  when  the  part- 
ing hour  arrived  ;  for  then  the  heart  of  Edgar  was  so  melt- 
ed within  him  at  the  sight  of  his  mother's  tears,  and  his 
father's  agony,  that  he  .ittered  words  of  tender  contrition, 
such  as  they  had  rever  heard  from  him  hefore  ;  the  recol- 
lection of  which  spoke  comfort  to  their  minds  when  they 
beheld  him  no  longer. 

But,  short  were  the  hopes  which  that  parting  hour  had 
excited.  In  a  (aw  months  the  master  of  the  school  wrote 
to  complain  of  the  insubordination  of  his  new  pupil.  la 
his  next  letter  he  declared  that  he  should  be  under  the  ne- 
cessity of  expelling  him  ;  and  Edgar  had  not  been  at  school 
six  months,  before  he  prevented  the  threatened  expulsion, 
only  by  running  away,  no  one  knew  whither  I  Nor  was 
he  heard  of  by  his  family  for  four  years ;  during  which  time, 
not  even  the  dutiful  affection  of  their  other  sons,  nor  their 
success  in  life,  had  power  to  heal  the  breaking  heart  of  the 
mother,  nor  cheer  the  depressed  spirits  of  the  father.  At 
length  the  prodigal  returned,  ill,   meagre,    penniless,  and 

{>euitent ;  and  was  received,  and  forgiven.  "  But  where 
last  thou  been,  my  child,  this  long,  long  time  1"  said  his 
mother,  tenderly  weeping,  as  she  gazed  on  his  pale  sunk 
cheek.  "  Ask  me  no  questions !  I  am  here  ;  that  13 
enough  ;"  Edgar  Vernon  replied,  shuddering  as  he  spake. 
11  It  is  enough  !"  cried  his  mother,  throwing  herself  on  his 
neck  !  "  For  this,  my  son,  was  dead,  and  is  alive  again ; 
was  lost,  and  is  found  !''  But  the  father  felt  and  thought 
differently  :  he  knew  that  it  was  his  duty  to  interrogate  his 
eon  ;  and  he  resolved  to  insist  on  knowing  where  and  how 
those  long  four  years  had  been  passed.  "  He,  howevei , 
delayed  his  questions  till  Edgar's  health  was  re-established, 
but  when  that  time  arrived,  he  told  him  that  he  oxpected 
to  know  all  that  had  befallen  him  since  he  ran  away  from 
school." — "  Spare  me  till  to-morrow,"  said  Edgar  Vernon, 
**  and  then  you  shall  know  all  "     His  lather  acquieered  ; 


130  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

but  the  next  morning  Edgar  had  disappeared,  leaving  the 
following  letter  behind  him  : — 

"  I  cannot,  dare  not,  tell  you  what  a  wretch  I  have  been  ! 
though  I  own  your  right  to  demand  such  a  confessiomJFiom 
me.  Therefore,  I  must  become  a  wanderer  again  !  Pray 
for  me,  dearest  and  tenderest  of  mothers  !  Pray  for  me,  best 
of  fathers  and  of  men  !  I  dare  not  pray  for  myself,  for  I  am 
a  vile  and  wretched  sinner,  though  your  grateftmand  affec- 
tionate son,  E.  V." 

Though  this  letter  nearly  drove  the  mother  to  distraction, 
it  contained  for  the  father  a  degree  of  soothing  comfort. 
She  dwelt  only  on  the  conviction  which  it  held  out  to  her, 
that  she  should  probably  never  behold  her  son  again ;  but 
he  dwelt  with  pious  thankfulness  on  the  sense  of  his  guilt, 
expressed  by  the  unhappy  writer;  trusting  that  the  sinner 
who  knows  and  owns  himself  to  be  "  vile"  may,  when  it  is 
least  expected  of  him,  repent  and  amend. 

How  had  these  four  years  been  passed  by  Edgar  Ver- 
non 1  That  important  period  of  a  boy's  life,  the  years 
from  fourteen  to  eighteen  1  Suffice  it  that,  under  a  feign- 
ed name,  in  order  that  he  might  not  be  traced,  he  entered 
on  board  a  merchant  ship  ;  that  he  had  left  it  after  he  had 
made  one  voyage ;  that  he  was  taken  into  the  service  of 
what  is  called  a  sporting  character,  whom  he  had  met  on 
board  ship,  who  saw  that  Edgar  had  talents  and  which  he 
might  render  serviceable  to  his  own  pursuits.  This  man, 
finding  he  was  the  son  of  a  gentleman,  treated  him  as  such, 
and  initiated  him  gradually  into  the  various  arts  of  gamblings 
and  the  vices  of  the  metropolis  ;  but  one  night  they  were 
both  surprised  by  the  officers  of  justice  at  a  noted  gaming- 
house ;  and,  alter  a  desperate  scuffle,  Edgar  escaped 
wounded,  and  nearly  killed,  to  a  house  in  the  suburbs. 
There  he  remained  till  he  was  safe  from  pursuit,  and 
then,  believing  himself  in  danger  of  dying,  he  longed  for 
the  comfort  of  his  paternal  roof;  he  also  longed  f~r  paternal 
forgiveness  ;  and  the  prodigal  returned  to  his  forgiving  par- 
ents. 

But,  as  this  was  a  tale  which  Edgar  might  well  shrink 
from  relating  to  a  pure  and  pious  father,  flight  was  far  ea- 
sier than  such  a  confession.  Still*  "  so  deceitful  is  the  hu- 
man heart,  and  desperately  wicked,"  that  I  believe  Edgar 


THE"  FATHER  AND  SON.  131 

was  beginning  to  feel  the  monotony  of  liis  life  at  home,  and 
therefore  wan  glad  of  an  excuse  to  justify  to  himself  his  de- 
sire to  escape  into  scenes  more  congenial  to  his  hab- 
its and,  now,  j>erverted  nature.  His  father,  however,  con» 
tinued  to  hope  for  his  reformation,  and  was  therefore  little 
prepared  for  the  next  intelligence  of  his  son,  which  reach- 
ed him  through  a  private  channel.  A  friend  wrote  to  in- 
form him  that  Edgar  was  taken  up  for  having  passed  forg- 
ed notes,  knowing  them  to  be  forgeries;  that  he  would  soon 
be  fully  committed  to  prison  for  trial  ;  and  would  l>e  tri- 
ed with  his  accomplices  at  the  ensuing  assizes  for  Mid- 
dlesex. 

At  first,  even  the  firmness  of  Vernon  yielded  to  the  stroke, 
and  he  was  bowed  low  unto  the  earth.  But  the  confiding 
christian  struggled  against  the  sorrows  of  the  suffering  fa- 
ther, and  overcame  them  ;  till,  at  last,  he  was  able  to  ex- 
claim, "  I  will  go  to  him  !  I  will  be  near  him  at  his  trial ! 
[  will  be  near  him  even  at  his  death,  if  death  be  his  por- 
tion !  And  no  doubt,  I  shall  be  permitted  to  awaken  him 
to  a  sense  of  his  guilt.  Yes,  I  may  be  permitted  to  see 
him  expire  contrite  before  God  and  man,  and  calling  on 
his  name  who  is  able  to  save  to  the  uttermost  !"  But,. 
just  as  he  was  setting  off  for  Middlesex,  his  wife,  who  had 
long  been  declining,  was  to  all  appearances,  so  much  worse, 
that  he  could  not  leave  her.  She  having  had  suspicions 
that  ali  was  not  right  with  Edgar,  contrived  to  discover  the 
truth,  which  had  been  kindly,~but  erroneously,  conceal- 
ed from  her,  and  had  sunk  under  the  sadden,  unmitigated 
blow  ;  and  the  welcome  intelligence,  that  the  prosecu- 
tor had  ivithdrawn  the  charge,  came  at  a  moment  when 
the  sorrows  of  the  bereaved  husband  had  closed  the  father's 
heart  against  the  voice  of  gladness. 

"  This  news  came  too  late  to  save  the  poor  victim  !"  he 
exclaimed,  as  he  knelt  beside  t.ie  corpse  of  her  whom  he 
had  loved  so  long  and  so  tenderly  ;  "  and  I  feel  that  I  can* 
not,  cannot  yet  rejoice  in  it  as  I  ought."  But  he  soon  re^ 
pented  of  this  ungrateful  return  to  the  mercy  of  Heaven  ; 
and,  even  before  the  body  was  consigned  to  the  grave,  he 
thankfully  acknowledged  that  the  liberation  of  his  son  was 
a  ray  amidst  the  gloom  that  surrounded  him. 

Meanwhile,  Edgar  Venion,  when  unexpectedly  liberated 


f32  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

from  what  he  knew  to  be  certain  danger  to  his  life,  resolv- 
ed on  the  ground  of  having  been  falsely  taken  up,  and  as  an 
innocent  injured  man,  to  visit  his  parents ;  for  he  had  heard 
of  his  mother's  illness  ;  and  his  heart  yearned  to  behold 
her  once  more.  But  it  was  only  in  the  dark  hour  that 
he  dared  venture  to  approach  his  home  :  and  it  was 
his  intention  to  discover  himself  at  first  to  his  mother 
only. 

Accordingly,  the  gray  parsonage  was  scarcely  visible  in 
the  shadows  of  twilight,  when  he  reached  the  gate  that  led 
to  the  hack  door  ;  at  which  he  gently  knocked,  but  in  vain. 
No  one  answered  his  knock ;  all  was  still  within  and 
around.  What  could  this  mean  1  He  then  walked  round 
the  house,  and  looked  in  at  the  window  ;  all  there  was  dark 
and  quiet  as  the  grave ;  but  the  church  bell  was  tolling, 
while  alarmed,  awed,  ami  overpowered,  he  leaned  against 
the  gate.  At  this  moment  he  saw  two  men  rapidly  pass 
along  the  road,  saying,  "  I  fear  we  shall  be  too  late  for  the 
funeral  !  I  wonder  how  the  poor  old  man  will  bear  it !  for 
he  loved  his  wife  dearly  !"-"  Aye  ;  and  so  he  did  that  wick- 
ed boy,  who  has  been  the  dentil  of  her  ;"  replied  the 
other. 

These  words  shot  like  an  arrow  through  the  not  yet  cal- 
lous heart  of  Edgar  Vernon,  and,  throwing  himself  on  the 
ground,  he  groaned  aloud  in  his  agony;  but  the  next  min- 
ute, with  speed  of  desperation,  he  ran  towards  the  church, 
and  reached  it  just  as  the  service  was  over,  the  mourners 
departing,  and  as  his  father  was  borne  away,  nearly  insen- 
sible, on  the  arms  of  his  virtuous  sons. 

At  such  a  moment  Edgar  was  able  to  enter  the  church 
unheeded;  for  all  eyes  were  on  his  afflicted  parent;  and 
the  self-convicted  culprit  dared  not  force  himself,  at  a  time 
like  that,  oil  the  notice  of  the  father  whom  he  had  so  griev- 
ously injured,  But  his  poo.  bursting  heart  felt  that  i I  must 
vent  its  agony,  or  break  ;  and,  ere  the  coffin  was  lowered 
into  the  vault,  he  rushed  forwards,  and,  throwing  himself 
across  it,  called  upon  his  mother's  name,  in  an  accent  so 
piteous  and  appalling,  that  the  assistants,  though  they  did 
not  recognize  him  at  first,  were  unable  to  drive  him  away  ; 
so  awed,  so  affee'ed,  were  they  by  the  agony  which  they 
witncssedi 


THE  FATHER  AND  SON.  153 

At  length  he  rose  up  and  endeavoured  to  speak,  but  in 
vain  ;  then,  holding  his  clenched  fists  to  his  forehead,  he 
screamed  out,  "  Heaven  preserve  my  senses  !"  and  rushed 
from  the  church  with  all  the  speed  of  desperation.  But 
whither  should  he  turn  those  desperate  steps  !  He  lunged, 
earnestly  longed,  to  go  and  humble  himself  before  his  fa- 
ther, and  implore  that  pardon  for  which  his  agonized  soul 
pined.  Hut,  alas  !  earthly  pride  forbade  him  to  indulge 
the  salutary  feeling  ;  for  he  knew  his  worthy,  unoffending 
brothers  were  in  the  house,  and  he  could  not  endure  the  mor- 
tification of  encountering  those  whose  virtues  must  be  put 
in  comparison  with  his  vices.  He  therefore  ca.-t  one 
long  lingering  look  at  the  abode  of  his  childhood,  and  fled 
for  ever  from  the  house  of  mourning,  humiliation,  and 
safety. 

In  a  few  days,  however,  he  wrote  to  his  father,  detail- 
ing his  reasons  for  visiting  home,  and  all  the  agonies  which 
he  had  experienced  during  his  short  stay.  Full  of  consolation 
was  this  letter  to  that  bereaved  and  mourning  heart  !  for 
to  him  it  seemed  the  language  of  contrition  ;  and  he  la- 
mented that  his  beloved  wife  was  not  alive,  to  share  in  the 
hope  which  it  gave  him.  "  Would  that  he  had  come,  or 
would  now  come  to  me  !"  he  exclaimed;  but  the  letter 
had  no  date  ;  and  he  knew  not  whither  to  send  an  invita- 
tion. Hut,  where  was  he,  and  tohat  was  he,  at  that  peri- 
od 1  Iii  gambling-houses,  at  cock-fights,  sparring-matches, 
fairs;  and  in  every  scene  where  profligacy  prevailed  the 
most ;  while  at  all  these  places  he  had  a  preeminence  in 
skill,  which  endeared  these  pursuits  to  him,  and  made  his 
occasional  contrition  powerless  to  influence  him  to  amend- 
ment of  life.  He  therefore  continued  to  disregard  the 
warning  voice  within  him  ;  till  at  length,  it  was  no  longer 
heeded. 

One  night,   when   on  his   way  to  Y ,  where  races 

were  to  succeed  the  assizes,  which  had  just  commenced,  he 
stopped  at  an  inn,  to  refresh  his  horse;  and,  being  hot 
with  riding,  and  depressed  by  some  recent  losses  at  play, 
he  drank  very  freely  of  the  spirits  which  he  had  ordered. 
At  this  moment  he  saw  a   schoolfellow  of  his   in  the   bar, 

who,  like  himself,  was  on  his  way  to  V .     This  young 

man  was  of  a  coarse  unfeeling    nature  ;  and  having  had  a 


134  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYING, 

fortune  left  him,  was  full  of  the  consequence  of  newly-ao 
quired  wealth. 

Therefore,  when  Edgar  Vernon  impulsively  approached 
him,  putting  his  hand  out,  asked  how  he  did,  Dunham 
haughtily  drew  hack,  put  his  hands  hehind  him,  and,  in  the 
hearing  of  several  persons,  replied,  "  I  do  not  know  you, 
sir!" — "  Not  know  me,  Dunham  V  cried  Edgar  Vernon, 
turning  very  pale.  "  That  is  to  say,  I  do  not  choose  to 
know  you." — "  And  why  not  1''  cried  Edgar,  seizing  his 
arm,  and  with  a  look  of  menace.  "  Because  .... 
because  ....  I  do  not  choose  to  know  a  man  who 
murdered  his  mother."  "  Murdered  his  mother  !"  cried 
the  hy-standers,  holding  up  their  hands,  and  regarding  Ed- 
gar Vernon  with  a  look  of  terror.  "  Wretch  !'  cried  he, 
seizing  Dunham  in  his  powerful  grasp,  "  explain  yourself 
this  moment,  or"'  .  .  .  . — "  Then  take  your  fingers 
from  my  throat  !"  Edgar  did  so  ;  and  Dunham  said,  "  I 
meant  only  that  you  broke  your  mother's  heart  by  your  ill 
conduct;  and  pray,  was  not  that  murdering  her  V*  While 
he  was  saying  this,  Edgar  Vernon  stood  with  folded  arms, 
rolling  his  eves  wildly  from  one  of  the  by-standers  to  the 
other  ;  and  seeing,  as  he  believed,  disgust  towards  him  in 
the  countenances  of  them  all.  When  Dunham  had  finish- 
el  speaking,  Edgar  Vernon  wrung  his  hands  in  agony,  say- 
ing, "  true,  most  true,  I  am  a  murderer  !  I  am  parricide  !" 
Then,  suddenly  drinking  off  a  large  glass  of  brandy  near 
him,  he  quitted  the  room,  and,  mounting  his  horse,  rode 
off  at  full  speed.  Aim  and  object  in  view  he  had  none  ;  he 
was  only  trying  to  escape  from  those  looks  of  horror  and 
aversion  which  the  remarks  of  Dunham  had  provoked.  But 
what  right  had  JDunhatn  so  to  provoke  him  1 

After  he  had  put  this  question  to  himself,  the  image  of 
Dunham,  scornfully  rejeetnig  him  his  hand,  alone  took 
possession  of  his  remembrance,  till  he  thursted  for  revenge  j 
and  the  irritation  of  the  moment  urged  him  to  seek  it  im- 
mediately. 

The  opportunity,  as  he  rightly  suspected,  was  in  his 
power ;  Dunham  would  soon  be  coming  that  way  on  his 

road  to  Y ;    and  he   would  meet  him.      He  did  so| 

and,  riding  up  to  him,  seized  the  bridle  of  his  horse,  ex» 
claiming,  "  you  have  called  me  a  murderer,  Dunham ;  nqd 


THE  FATHER    AND  SON.  135 

you  were  right ;  for,  though  I  loved  my  mother  deadly, 
and  would  have  died  for  her,  I  killed  her  by  my  wickea 
course  of  life  !" — "  Well,  well ;  I  know  that,"  replied 
Dunham,  "  so  let  me  go  !  for  I  tell  you  I  do  not  like  to  be 
seen  with  such  as  you.     Let  me  go,  I  say !" 

He  did  let  him  go  ;  but  it  was  as  the  tygcr  lets  go  its 
prey,  to  spring  on  it  again.  A  blow  from  Edgar's  ner- 
vous arm  knocked  the  rash  insulter  from  Ins  home.  In 
another  minute  Dunham  lay  on  the  road  a  bleeding  corpse  5 
and  the  next  morning  officers  were  out  in  pursuit  of  the 
murderer.  That  wretched  man  was  soon  found,  and  soon 
secured.  Indeed,  he  had  not  desired  to  avoid  pursuit; 
but,  when  the  irritation  of  drunkenness  and  revenge  had  sub- 
sided, the  agony  of  remorse  took  possession  (if  his  6oul  ;  and 
he  confessed  his  crime  with  tears  of  the  bitterest  penitence. 
To  be  brief:  Edgar  Vernon  was  carried  into  that  city  as  a 
manacled  criminal,  which  he  had  expected  to  leave  as  a 
successful  gambler  ;  and,  before  the  end  of  the  assizes,  he 
was  condemned  to  death. 

He  made  a  full  confession  of  his  guilt  before  the  judge 
pronounced  condemnation  ;  gave  a  brief  statement  of  the 
provocation  which  he  received  from  the  deceased  ;  blaming 
himself  at  the  same  time  for  his  criminal  revenge,  in  so 
heart-reuding  a  manner,  and  lamenting  so  patheti -ally  the 
disgrace  and  misery  in  which  he  had  involved  his  father 
and  family,  that  every  heart  was  melted  to  compassion  ; 
and  the  judge  wept,  while  he  passed  on  him  the  awful  sen- 
tence of  the  law. 

His  conduct  in  prison  was  so  exemplary,  that  it  proved 
he  had  not  forgotten  his  father's  precepts,  though  he  had  not 
acted  upon  them  ;  and  his  brothers,  for  whom  he  sent, 
found  him  in  a  state  of  mind  which  afforded  them  the  only 
and  best  consolation.  This  contrite  lowly  christian  state 
of  mind  accompanied  him  to  the  awful  end  of  his  existence  ; 
and  it  might  be  justly  said  of  him,  that  "  nothing  in  his  life 
became  him  like  the  losing  it." 

Painful,  indeed,  was  the  anxiety  of  Edgar  and  his  broth- 
ers, lest  their  father  should  learn  this  horrible  circum- 
stance :  but  as  the  culprit  was  arraigned  under  a  feigned 
name,  and  as  the  crime,  trial,  and  execution,  had  taken* 
and  would  take  up,  so  short  a  period  of  time,  the^  flatter- 


13Q  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LtlNO. 

«d  themselves  that  he  would  never  learn  how  and  where 
Edgar  died ;  but  would  implicitly  believe  what  was 
told  him.  They  therefore  wrote  him  word  that  Edgar  had 
been  taken  ill  at.  an  inn,  near  London,  on  his  road  home  J 
that  he  had  sent  for  them  ;  and  they  had  little  hopes  of 
his  recovery.  They  followed  this  letter  of  benevo- 
LENT  lies  as  soon  as  they  could  inform  him  that  all  was 
over. 

This  plan  was  wholly  disapproved  by  a  friend  of  the  fam- 
ily, who,  on  principle,  thought  all  concealment  wrong;  and, 
probably,  useless  too. 

When  the  brothers  drove  to  his  house,  on  their  way 
home,  he  said  to  them,  "  I  found  your  father  in  a  state  of 
deep  submission  to  the  divine  will,  though  grieved  at  the 
loss  of  a  child,  whom  not  even  his  errors  could  drive  from- 
his  affections.  I  also  found  him  consoled  by  those  expres- 
sionr-  of  filial  love  and  reliance  on  the  merits  of  his  Re- 
deemer, which  you  transmitted  to  him  from  Edgar  himself. 
Now,  as  the  poor  youth  died  penitent,  and  as  Ins  crime 
was  palliated  by  great  provocation,  I  conceive  that  ix, 
would  pot  add  much  to  your  father's  distress,  were  he  to  be 
informed  of  the  truth.  You  know  that  from  a  principle  of 
obedience  to  the  implied  designs  of  Providence,  I  object  to 
any  concealment  on  such  occasions,  but  on  this,  disclosure 
would  certainly  be  a  safer,  as  well  as  more  proper,  mode 
of  proceeding  ;  for,  though  he  does  not  read  newspapers, 
he  may  one  day  learn  the  fact  as  it  is  ;  and  then  the  con- 
sequences may  be  fatal  to  life  or  reason.  Remember  how 
ill  concealment  answered  in  your  poor  mother's  case." 
But  he  argued  in  vain.  However,  he  obtained  leave  to  go 
with  them  to  their  father,  that  he  might  judge  of  the  pos- 
sibility of  making  the  disclosure  which  he  advised. 

They  found  the  poor  old  man  leaning  his  head  upon  an 
open  Bible,  as  though  he  had  been  praying  over  it.  The 
sight  of  his  sons  in  mourning  told  the  tale  which  he  dread- 
ed to  hear  ;  and,  wringing  their  hands  in  silence  left  the 
room,  I mt  soon  returned  ;  with  surprising  composure,  said, 
•*Well|  now  I  can  bear  to  hear  particulars."  When 
they  hafl  told  him  all  they  chose  to  relate,  he  exclaimed, 
melting  into  tears,  "  Enough  ! — Oh,  my  dear  sons  and  dear 
friend,,  it  sa  a  sad  aud  grievous  thing  for  a  father  to  owa| 


the  Father  and  son.  137 

but  I  feel  this  Borrow  to  be  a  blessing  !  I  had  alwaya 
feared  that  he  would  die  a  violent  death,  cither  by  his  own 
hand,  or  that  of  an  executioner  ;  (here  the  sons  looked  tri- 
umphantly at  each  other;)  therefore  his  dying  a  penitent, 
and  with  humble  christian  reliance,  is  such  a  relief  to  my 
mind  I  Yes  ;  I  feared  he  might  commit  forgery,  or  even 
murder  ;  and  that  would  have  been  dreadful  !" — "  Dread- 
ful indeed  !''  faltered  out  both  the  brothers,  bursting  into 
tears  ;  while  Osborne,  choked,  and  almost  convinced,  turn- 
ed to  the  window.  "  Yet,"  added  he,  "  even  in  that  case, 
if  he  had  died  penitent,  I  trust  that  I  could  have  borne  the 
blow,  an  1  been  able  to  believe  the  soul  of  my  unhappy  boy 
would  find  mercy  !  '  Here  Osborne  eagerly  turned  round, 
and  would  have  ventured  to  tell  the  truth  ;  but  was  with- 
held by  the  frowns  of  his  companions,  and  the  truth  was 
not  told.  ^ 

Edgar  had  not  been  dead  above  seven  mouths,  before  a 
visible  change  took  place  in  his  father's  spirits,  and  ex- 
pression of  countenance  ; — for  the  constant  dread  of  his 
child's  coming  to  a  terrible  end  had  hitherto  preyed  on  his 
mind,  and  rendered  his  appearance  haggard;  but  now  he 
looked,  and  was  cheerful;  therefore  his  sons  rejoiced, 
whenever  they  visited  him,  that  they  had  not  taken  Os- 
borne's advice.  '  You  are  wrong,"  said  he,  "  he  would 
have  been  just  as  well,  if  he  had  known  the  manner  of  Ed- 
gar's death.  It  is  not  his  ignorance,  but  the  cessation  of 
anxious  suspense,  that  has  thus  renovated  him.  Howev- 
er, he  may  go  in  this  ignorance  to  his  grave  ;  and  I  earn- 
estly hope  he  will  do  so." — "  Amen  ;"  said  one  of  his 
sons;  "  for  his  life  is  most  precious  to  our  children  as  well 
as  to  us.  Our  little  boys  are  improving  so  fast  under  hi  s 
tuition  !" 

The  consciousness  of  recovering  health,  as  a  painful  af- 
fection of  the  breath  and  heart,  had  greatly  subsided  since 
the  deadi  of  Edgar,  made  the  good  old  man  wish  to  visit, 
during  summer  months,  an  old  college  friend,  who  lived 
in  Yorkshire  ;  and  he  communicated  his  intentions  to  his 
sons.  But  they  highly  disapproved  them,  because,  though 
Edgar's  dreadful  death  was  not  likely  to  be  revealed 
to  him  in  the  little  village  of  R ,  it  might  be  di*> 


T39  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP    LYING. 

closed  to  him  by  some  one  or  other  during  a  long  jour* 
ney. 

However,  as  he  was  bent  on  going,  they  could  not  find  a 
sufficient  excuse  for  preventing  it ;  but  they  took  every 
precaution  possible.  They  wrote  to  their  father's  intend* 
ed  host,  desiring  him  to  keep  all  papers  and  magazines  for 
the  last  seven  months  out  of  his  way ;  and  when  the  day 
of  his  departure  arrived,  Osborne  himself  went  to  take  a 
place  for  him  ;  and  took  care  it  should  be  in  that  coach 
which  did  not  stop  at,  or  go  through  York,  in  order  to  ob- 
viate all  possible  chance  of  his  hearing  the  murder  discuss- 
ed. But  it  so  happened  that  a  family,  going  from  the  town 
whence  the  coach  started,  wanted  the  whole  of  it ;  and, 
without  leave,  Vernon's  place  was  transferred  to  the  other 
coach,  which  went  the  very  road  Osborne  disapproved. 
"  Well,  well;  it  is  the  same  thing  to  me  ;"  said  the  good 
old  man,  when  he  was  informed  of  the  change  ;  and  he  set 
off,  full  of  pious  thankfulness  for  the  affectionate  conduct 
and  regrets  of  his  parishioners  at  the  moment  of  his  depart- 
ure, as  they  lined  the  road  along  which  the  coach  was  to 
pass,  and  expressed  even  clamorously  their  wishes  for  his 
return. 

The  coach  stopped  at  an  inn  out-side  the  city  of  York; 
and  as  Vernon  was  not  disposed  to  eat  any  dinner,  he 
strolled  along  the  road,  till  he  came  to  a  small  church 
pleasantly  situated,  and  entered  the  church-yard  to  read,  as 
was  his  custom,  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombstones.  While 
thiis  engaged,  he  saw  a  man  filling  up  a  new-made  grave, 
'.md  entered  into  conversation  with  him.  He  found  it  wag 
the  saxnn  himself;  and  he  drew  from  him  several  anecdoteo 
of  the  persons  interred  around  them. 

J)uring  this  conversation  they  had  walked  over  the  whole 
of  the  ground,  when,  just  as  they  were  going  to  leave  the 
spot,  the  saxon  stopped  to  pluck  some  weeds  from  a  grave 
near  the  corner  of  it,  and  Vernon  stopped  also  ;  taking  hold, 
as  he  did  so,  of  a  small  willow  sapling,  planted  near  the  cor- 
ner itself. 

As  the  man  rose  from  his  occupation,  and  saw  where 
Vernon  stood,  he  smiled  significantly,  and  said,  "  I  plant- 
ed that  willow  ;  and  it  is  on  a  grave,  though  the  grave  is 
aot  marked  out,"—"  Indeed !"— w  Yes  ;  it  ia  the  grave 


TUB  FATHER  AND  SON.  139 

©fa  murderer." — "  Of  a  murderer  !" — echoed  Vernon,  !i> 
stinctively  shuddering  and  moving  away  from  it. — "  Yes,' 
resumed  he,  "  of  a  murderer  who   was  hanged  at  York. 
Poor  lad  !    it  was  very  right  that  he  should  he  hanged  } 
but  he  was  not  a  hardened  villain  !  and  he  died  so   peni- 
tent !  and,  as  I  knew  him   when  he  used  to  visit  where  I 
was  groom,  I  could  not  help  planting  this  tree,  for  old  ac- 
quaintance' sake-"     Here   he  drew   his  hand   across  his 
eyes.     ".Then  he  was  not  a  low-born  man." — "  Oh  no  J 
Jus  father  was  a  clergyman,  I  think." — "  Indeed  !    poor 
man  :  was  he  living  at  the  time  1"    said  Vernon,  deeply 
sighing.     "  Oh  yes  ;  for  his  poor  son  did  so  fret,  lest  his 
father  should  ever  know   what  he  had  done  ;    for  he  said 
he  was  an  angel  upon  earth  ;  and  he  could  not  bear  to 
think  how  he  would  grieve  ;  for,  poor  lad,  he  loved  his  fa- 
ther and  his  mother  too,   though  he  did  so  badly," — "  Is 
his  mother  living  V — "  No :    if  she  had,  he   would  have 
been  alive  ;  but  his  evil  courses  broke    her  heart ;    and  it 
was  because  the  man  he  killed   reproached  him  for  having 
murdered  his   mother,   that  he  was  provoked  to   murder 
him.'' — "  Poor  rash,  mistaken  youth  !  then  he  had  provo- 
cation."— "Oil  yes;  the  greatest :  but  he   was  very  sorry 
for  what  he  had  done ;    and  it    would  have  broken  your 
heart  to  hear  him  talk  of  his  poor  father." — "  I  am  glad 
I  did  not  hear  him,"  said  Vernon  hastily,  and  in  a  falter- 
ing voice  (for  he  thought  of  Edgar.)      "  And  yet,  sir,  it 
would  have  done  your  heart  good  too." — "  Then   he    had 
virtuous  feelings,  and  loved  his  father  amidst  all  his  er- 
rors ;" — "  Aye" — "  And  I  dare  say  his  father  loved  him, 
in  spite  of  his  faults." — "  I  dare  say  he  did,"  replied  the 
man  ;  "for  one's  children  are  our  own  flesh  and   blood, 
you  know,  sir,  after  all  that  is  said  and  done ;  and  may  be 
this  young  fellow  was  spoiled  in  bringing  up." — "  Perhaps 
so,"  said  Vernon,  sighing  deeply.     "  However,  this  poor 
lad  made  a  very  good  end." — "  I  am  glad  of  that !  and  he 
lies  here/'   continued  Vernon,  gazing  on  the  spot   with 
deepening  interest,  and  moving  nearer  to  it  as  he  spoke. 
"  Peace   be  to  his  soul !    but  was  he  not  dissected  V— 
"  Yes  ;  but  his  brothers  got  leave  to  have  the  body  after 
dissection.     They  came  to  me  ;  and  we  buried  it  privately 
at  ni^ht."— "  Hja  brothers  came  !  and  who  were  his  broth* 


140  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYiNG. 

ere  1" — "  Merchants,  in  London  ;  and  it  was  a  sad  cut  on 
them  ;  but  they  took  care  that  their  father  should  not 
know  it." — "  No  !"  cried  Vernon,  turning  sick  at  heart. 
u  Oh  no ;  they  wrote  him  word  that  his  son  was  ill ;  then 

went    to  Westmoreland,  and " — "  Tell 

me,*'  interrupted  Vernon  gasping  for  breath,  and  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  his  arm,  "  tell  me  the  name  of  this  poor 
youth  !" — "  Why,  he  was  tried  under  a  false  name,  for 
the  sake  of  his  family  ;  but  his  real  name  was  Edgar  Ver 
non  !" 

The  agonized  parent  drew  back,  shuddered  violently 
and  repeatedly,  casting  up  his  eyes  to  heaven  at  the  same 
time,  with  a  look  of  mingled  appeal  and  resignation.  He 
then  rushed  to  the  obscure  spot  which  covered  the  bones  of 
his  son,  threw  himself  upon  it,  and  stretched  his  arms 
over  it,  as  if  embracing  the  unconscious  deposit  beneath, 
while  his  head  rested  on  the  grass,  and  he  neither  spoke 
nor  moved.  But  he  uttered  one  groan  :  then  all  was  still- 
ness ! 

His  terrified  and  astonished  companion  remained  mo- 
tionless for  a  few  moments, — then  stooped  to  raise  him  ; 
but  the  fiat  of  mercy  had  gone  forth,  and  the  paternal 
heart  broken  by  the  sudden  shock,  had  suffered,  and 
breathed  its  last. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

LIES  OF    WANTONNESS. 

I  come  now  to  lies  of  wantonness  ;  that  is,  lies  told 
from  no  other  motive  but  a  love  of  lying,  and  to  show  the 
utterer's  total  contempt  of  truth,  and  for  those  scrupulous 
persons  of  their  acquaintance  who  look  on  it  with  rever- 
ence, and  endeavour  to  act  up  to  their  principles  :  lies,  hav- 
ing their  origin  merely  in  a  depraved  fondness  for  speaking 
and  inventing  falsehood.  Not  that  persons  of  this  description 
confine  their  falsehoods  to  this  sort  of  lying  :  on  the  con- 
trary, they  lie  after  this  fashion,  because  they  have  exhaust- 


PRACTICAL  LIES.  141 

€i  the  strongly,  motived  and  more  natural  sorts  of  lying. 
In  such  as  these,  there  is  no  more  hope  of  amendment  than 
there  is  for  the  man  of  intemperate  habits,  who  has  ex- 
hausted life  of  its  pleasures,  and  his  constitution  of  its  en- 
ergy. Such  persons  must  go  despised  and  (terrible  state 
of  human  degradation  !)  untrusted,  unbelieved,  into  their 
graves. 

Practical  lies  come  last  on  my  list ;  lies  not  ut- 
tered, but  acted  ;  and  dress  will  furnish  me  with  most 
of  my  illustrations. 

Tt  has  been  said  that  the  great  art  of  dress  is  to  con- 
ceal defects  and  heighten  beauties  ;  therefore, 
as  concealment  is  deception,  this  great  art  of  dress  is  found- 
ed on  falsehood  ;  but,  certainly,  in  some  instances,  on  false- 
hood, comparatively,  of  an  innocent  kind. 

If  the  false  hair  be  so  worn,  that  no  one  can  fancy  it 
natural ;  if  the  bloom  on  the  cheek  is  such,  that  it 
cannot  be  mistaken  for  nature  ;  or,  if  the  person  who 
"conceals  defects,  and  heightens  beauties,"  openly  avows 
the  practice,  then  is  the  deception  annihilated.  But,  if  the 
cheek  be  so  artfully  tinted,  that  its  hue  is  mistaken  for  natu- 
ral colour  ;  if  the  false  hair  be  so  skilfully  woven,  that  it 
passes  for  natural  hair  ;  if  the  crooked  person,  or  meagre 
form,  be  so  cunningly  assisted  by  dress,  that  the  uneven 
shoulder  disappears,  and  becoming  fulness  succeeds  to  unbe- 
coming thinness,  while  the  man  or  woman  thus  assisted  by 
art  expects  their  charms  will  be  imputed  to  nature  alone  ; 
then  these  aids  of  dress  partake  of  the  nature  of  other  lying, 
nnd  become  equally  vicious  in  the  eyes  of  the  religious  and 
the  moral. 

I  have  said,  the  man  or  woman  so  assisted  by  art;  and 
I  believe  that  by  including  the  stronger  sex  in  the  above  ob- 
servation, I  have  only  been  strictly  just. 

While  men  hide  baldness  by  -gluing  a  piece  of  false  hair 
on  their  heads,  meaning  that  it  should  pass  for  their  own, 
and  while  a  false  calf  gives  muscular  beauty  to  a  shapeless 
leg,  can  the  observer  of  human  life  do  otherwise  than  in- 
clude the  wiser  sex  in  the  list  of  those  who  indulge  in  the 
permitted  artifices  and  mysteries  of  the  toilet  1  Nay: 
bolder  still  are  the  advances  of  some  men  into  its  sacred 
mysteries.     I  have  seen  the  eyebrows  even  of  the  young, 


142  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING 

darkened  by  the  hand  of  art,  and  their  cheeks  reddened  by 
its  touch  ;  and  who  has  not  seen,  in  Bond  Street,  or  the 
Drive,  during  the  last  twenty  or  thirty  years,  certain  noto- 
rious men  of  fashion  glowing  in  immortal  bloom,  and  rival- 
ling the  dashing  belle  beside  them  1 

As  the  foregoing  observations  on  the  practical  lies  of 
dress,  have  been  mistaken  by  many,  and  have  exposed  me 
to  severe,  (and  I  think  I  may  add)  unjust  animandversions, 
I  take  the  opportunity  afforded  me  by  a  second  edition,  to 
6ay  a  few  words  in  explanation  of  them. 

I  do  not  wish  to  censure  any  one  for  having  recourse  to 
art  to  hide  the  defects  of  nature  ;  and,  I  have  expressly 
said,  that  such  practices  are  comparatively  innocent :  but, 
it  seems  to  me,  that  they  cease  to  be  innocent,  and  become 
passive  and  practical  lies  also,  if,  when  men  and  women 
hear  the  fineness  of  their  complexion,  hair,  or  teeth,  com 
mended  in  their  presence,  they  do  not  own  that  the  beauty 
6o  commended  is  entirely  artificial,  provided  such  be  really 
the  case.     But, 

I  am  far  from  advising  any  one  to  be  guilty  of  the  un- 
necessay  egotism,  of  volunteering  sach  an  assurance;  all  I 
contend  for  is,  that  when  we  are  praised  for  qualities,  wheth- 
er of  mind  or  person,  which  we  do  not  possess,  we  are  guilty 
of  passive,  if  not  of  practical,  lying,  if  we  do  not  disclaim 
our  right  to  the  encomium  bestowed. 

The  following  are  practical  lies  of  every  day's  ex 
perience. 

Wearing  paste  for  diamonds,  intending  that  the  false 
should  be  taken  for  the  true;  and  purchasing  brooches, 
pins,  and  rings  of  mock  jewels,  intending  that  they  should 
pass  for  real  ones.  Passing  off  gooseberry-wine  at  dinner 
for  real  Champaigue,  and  English  liqueurs  for  foreign  ones 
But,  on  these  occasions,  the  motive  is  not  always  the  mean 
and  contemptible  wish  of  imposing  on  the  credulity  of  oth- 
ers ;  but  it  has  sometimes  its  source  in  a  dangerous  as 
well  as  deceptive  ambition,  that  of  making  an  appear- 
ance beyond  what  the  circumstances  of  the  persons  so 
deceiving  really  warrant  ;  the  wish  to  be  supposed  to 
be  more  opulent  than  they  really  are  ;  that  most  com- 
mon of  all  practical  lies  ;  as  ruin  and  bankruptcy 
follow  in  its  train.     The  lady  who  purchases  and  wean 


PRACTICAL  LIES.  143 

paste,  which  she  hopes  will  pass  for  diamonds,  is  usually 
one  who  has  no  right  to  wear  jewels  at  all ;  and  the  gentle- 
man who  passes  off  gooseberry-wine  for  Champaign  is,  in 
all  probability,  aiming  at  a  style  of  living  beyond  his  situ- 
ation in  society. 

On  some  occasions,  however,  when  ladies  substitute 
paste  for  diamonds,  that  substitution  tells  a  tale  of  greater 
error  still.  I  mean,  when  ladies  wear  mock  for  real  jew- 
els, because  their  extravagance  had  obliged  them  to  raise 
money  on  the  latter;  and  they  are  therefore  constrained 
to  keep  up  the  appearance  of  their  necessary  and  accus- 
tomed splendour,  by  a  practical  lie. 

The  following  is  anodier  of  the  practical  lies  in 
common  use. 

The  medical  man,  who  desires  his  servants  to  call  him 
out  of  church,  or  from  a  party,  in  order  to  give  him  the 
appearance  of  the  great  business  which  he  has  not  is  guil- 
ty not  of  uttering  but  of  acting  a  falsehood;  and  the  au- 
Jior  also,  who  makes  his  publisher  put  second  and  th^rd 
editions  before  a  work  of  which,  perhaps,  not  even  the  first 
edition  is  iold. 

But,  the  most  fatal   to  the   interests  of  odiers,  though 

Cerhaps  the  most  pitiable  of  practical  lies,  are  those  acted 
y  men  whr ,  though  they  know  themselves  to  be  in  the 
gulf  of  bankruptcy,  either  from  wishing  to  put  off  the  evil 
day,  or  from  the  visionary  hope  that  something  will  occur 
unexpectedly  to  save  them,  launch  out  into  increased  splen- 
dour of  living,  in  order  to  obtain  further  credit  and  induce 
their  acquaintances  to  intrust  their  money  to  them. 

There  is,  however,  one  practical  lie  more  fatal  still, 
in  my  opinion  ;  because  it  is  the  practice  of  schools,  and 
consequently  the  sin  of  earlv  life  ; — a  period  of  existence 
in  which  it  is  desirable,  both  for  general  and  individual 
good,  that  habits  of  truth  and  integrity  should  be  acquir- 
ed, and  strictly  adhered  to.  I  mean  the  pernicious  custom 
which  prevails  among  boys,  and  probably  girls,  of  getting 
their  schoolfellows  to  do  their  exercises  for  theii.,  or  con- 
senting to  the  same  office  for  others. 

Some  will  say,  "  but  it  would  be  so  ill-natured  to  refuse 
to  write  one's  schoolfellows'  exercises,  expecially  when 
one  is  convinced  that  they  cann^i  write  them  for  them- 


144  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

selves."  But  leaving  the  question  of  truth  and  falsehood 
unargued  a  while  let  us  examine  coolly  that  of  the  proba- 
ble good  or  evil  done  to  the  parties  obliged. 

What  are  children  sent  to  school  for  % — to  learn.  And 
when  there,  what  are  the  motives  which  are  to  make  them 
learn  1  dread  of  punishment,  and  hope  of  distinction  and 
reward.  There  are  few  children  so  stupid,  as  not  to  be 
led  on  to  industry  by  one  or  both  of  these  motives,  howev- 
er indolent  they  may  be  ;  but,  if  these  motives  be  not  al- 
lowed their  proper  scope  of  action,  the  stupid  boy  will 
never  take  the  trouble  to  learn,  if  he  finds  that  he  can 
avoid  punishment,  and  gain  reward,  by  prevailing  on  some 
more  diligent  boy  to  do  his  exercises  for  him.  Those, 
therefore,  who  thus  indulge  their  schoolfellows,  do  it  at 
the  expense  of  their  future  welfare,  and  are  in  reality  foes 
where  they  fancied  themselves  friends.  But,  generally 
speaking,  they  have  not  even  this  excuse  for  their  perni- 
cious compliance,  since  it  springs  from  want  of  sufficient 
firmness  to  say  no, — and  deny  an  earnest  request  at  the 
command  of  principle.  But,  to  such  I  would  put  this 
question.  "  Which  is  the  real  friend  to  a  child,  the  per- 
son who  gives  it  the  sweetmeats  which  it  were  so  hard  to 
refuse  the  dear  little  thing  ;  or  the  person  who,  consider- 
ing only  the  interest  and  health  of  the  child,  resists  its  im- 
portunities, though  grieved  to  deny  its  requests  1  No 
doubt  that  they  would  give  the  palm  of  real  kindness,  real 
good-nature  to  the  latter  ;  and  in  like  manner,  the  boy 
who  refuses  to  do  his  schoolfellow's  task  is  more  truly 
kind,  more  truly  good-natured,  to  him  than  he  who,  by  in- 
dulging his  indolence,  runs  the  risk  of  making  him  a  dunce 
for  life. 

But  some  may  reply,  **  It  would  make  one  odious  in 
the  school,  were  one  to  refuse  this  common  compliance 
with  the  wants  and  wishes  of  one's  companions." — Not 
if  the  refusal  were  declared  to  be  the  result  of  principle, 
and  every  aid  not  contrary  to  it  were  offered  and  afforded  ; 
and  there  are  many  ways  in  which  schoolfellows  may  as- 
sist each  other,  without  any  violation  of  truth*  and  with- 
out sharing  with  them  in  the  prctical  lie,  by  impose 
ing  on  their  masters,  as  theirs,  lessons  which  they  never 
wrote. 


VT\\<  TICAI,   T.irs.  1^5 

This  common  practice  in  schools  is  a  rn  \ci  ical  mp, 
of  considerable  importance,  from  its  frequency  ;  mid  be- 
cause, as  I  before  observed,  (lie  result  of  it  is,  that  the 
first  step  which  a  child  set.-?  in  a  school  is  into  the  midst 
of  deceit — tolerated,  cherished,  deceit.  For,  if  children 
are  quick  at  learning,  they  are  called  upon  immediately 
to  enable  others  to  deceive  J  and,  if  dull,  they  are  enabled 
to  appear  in  borrowed  plumes  themselves. 

How  often  have  I  heard  men  in  mature  life  say,  "  Oh  ! 
I  knew  such  a  one  at  school ;  he  was  a  very  good  fellow, 
but  so  dull  !  I  have  often  done  his  exercises  for  him."  Or, 
have  heard  the  contrary  asserted.  "  Such  a  one  was  a 
very  clever  boy  at  school  indeed  ;  he  has  done  many  an 
exercise  for  me  ;  for  he  was  very  good-natured."  And 
in  neither  case  was  the  speaker  conscious  that  he  had  been 
guilty  of  the  meanness  of  deception  himself,  or  been  acces 
sary  to  it  in  Another. 

Parents  also  correct  their  children's  exercises,  an  I 
thereby  enable  them  to  put  deceit  on  the  master  ;  notonlv 
oy  this  means  convincing  their  offspring  of  their  own  total 
disregard  of  truth  ;  a  conviction  doubtless  most  pernicious 
in  its  effects  on  their  young  minds  ;  but  as  full  of  lolly  as 
it  is  of  laxity  of  principle  ;  since  the  deceit  cannot  fail  of 
being  detected,  whenever  the  parents  are  not  at  hand 
to  afford  their  assistance. 

But,  is  it  necessary  that  this  school  delinquency 
should  exist!  Is  it  not  advisable  that  children  should 
learn  the  rudiments  of  truth,  rather  than  falsehood,  with 
those  of  their  mother  tongue  and  classics  1  Surely  masters 
and  mistresses  should  watch  ova-  the  morals,  while  im- 
proving the  minds  of  youth.  Surely  parents  ought  to  be 
tremblingly  solicitous  that  their  children  should  always 
speak  truth,  and  be  corrected  by  their  preceptors  for  ut- 
tering falsehood.  Yet,  of  what  use  could  it  be  to  correct 
a  child  for  telling  a  spontaneous  lie,  on  the  impulse  of 
etrong  temptation,  if  that  child  be  in  the  daily  habit  of 
deceiving  his  master  OH  system,  and  of  assisting  others  to 
do  so  1  While  the  present  practice  with  regard  to  exer- 
cise-making exists;  while  boys  and  girls  go  up  to  their 
preceptors  with  lies  in  their  hands,  whence,  sometimes, 
no  doubt,  they  are  transferred  to  their  lips  j  every  h^pe 
K 


146  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF    LYING. 

that  truth  will  be  (aught  in  schools,  as  a  necessary  mora! 
duty,  must  be  totally,  and  for  ever,  annihilated. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

OUR  OWN  EXPERIENCE    OF  THE    PAINFUL    RESULTS 
OF  LYING. 

I  cannot  point  out  the  mischievous  nature  and  impolicy 
of  lying  better  than  by  referring  my  readers  to  their  own 
experience.  Which  of  them  does  not  kntfw  some  few 
persons,  at  least,  from  whose  habitual  disregard  of  truth 
they  have  often  suffered;  and  with  whom  they  find  intim- 
acy unpleasant,  as  well  as  unsafe;  because  confidence,  that 
charm  and  cement  of  intimacy,  is  wholly  wanting  in  the 
intercourse  1  Which  of  my  readers  is  not  sometimes  oblig- 
ed to  say,  "  I  ought  to  add,  that  my  authority  for  what  I 
have  just  related,  is  only  Mr.  and  Mrs.  such-a-one,  or  a 
certain  young  lady,  or  a* certain  young  gentleman;  there- 
fore, you  know  what  credit  is  to  be  given  to  it." 

It  has  been  asserted,  that  every  town  and  viltage  has  its 
idiot;  and,  with  equal  truth,  probably,  it  may  be  advanc- 
ed, that  every  one's  circle  of  acquaintances  contain  one  or 
more  persons  known  to  be  habitual  liars,  and  always  men- 
tioned as  such.  I  may  be  asked,  "  if  this  be  so  of  what 
consequence  is  it  1  And  how  is  it  mischievous  1  If  such 
persons  are  known  and  chronicled  as  liars,  they  can  de- 
ceive no  one,  and,  therefore,  can  do  no  harm."  But  this 
is  not  true  :  we  are  not  always  on  our  guard,  either  against 
our  own  weekness,  or  against  that  of  others  ;  and  if  the 
jnost  notorious  liar  tells  us-  something  which  we  wish  to 
believe,  our  wise  resolution  never  to  credit  or  repeat  what 
l*e  has  told  us,  fades  before  our  desire  to  confide  in  him  on 
this  occasion.     Thus,  even  in  spite  of  caution,  we  become 


PAINFUL  RESULTS  OF  LYIXG.  147 

the  agents  of  his  falsehood;  anJ,  though  lovers  of  truth, 
are  the  assistants  of  lying. 

Nor  are  there  any  of  my  readers,  I  venture  to  pronounce, 
who  have  not  at  some  time  or  other  of  their  lives,  had  cause 
to  lament  some  violation  of  truth,  of  which  they  themselves 
were  guilty,  and  which,  at  the  time,  they  considered  as 
wise,  or  positively  unavoidable. 

But  the  greatest  proof  of  the  impolicy  even  of  occa- 
sional lying  is,  that  it  exposes  one  to  the  danger  of  never 
being  believed  in  future.  It  is  difficult  to  give  implicit 
credence  to  those  who  have  once  deceived  us  ;  when  they 
did  so  deceive,  they  were  governed  by  a  motive  sufficient- 
ly powerful  to  overcome  their  regard  fur  truth  ;  and  how 
can  one  ever  be  sure,  that  equal  temptation  is  not  al- 
ways present,  and  always  overcoming  them  1 

Admitting,  that  perpetual  distrust  attends  on  those  who 
are  known  to  be  frequent  violators  of  truth,  it  seems  to 
me  that  the  liar  is,  as  if  he  was  not.  He  is,  as  it  were, 
annihilated  for  all  the  important  purposes  of  life.  That 
man  or  woman  is  no  better  than  a  nonentity,  whose  sim- 
ple assertion  is  not  credited  immediately.  Those  whose 
words  no  one  dares  to  repeat,  without  Darning  the  author- 
ity, lest  the  information  conveyed  by  them  should  be  too 
implicitly  credited,  such  persons,  I  repeat  it,  exist,  as  if 
they  existe  1  not.  They  resemble  tint  diseased  eye,  which, 
though  perfect  in  colour,  and  appearance,  is  wholly  use- 
less, because  it  cannot  perform  the  function  lor  which  it 
was  created,  that  of  seeing  ;  for,  of  what  use  to  others, 
and  of  what  benefit  to  themselves,  can  those  be  whose 
tongues  are  always  suspected  of  uttering  falsehood,  and 
whose  words,  instead  of  inspiring  confidence,  tint  soul  and 
cement  of  society,  and  of  mutual  regard,  are  received  with 
offensive  distrust,  and  never  repeated  without  caution  and 
apologv  1 

I  shall  now  en  leavour  to  show,  that  speaking  the  truth 
does  not  imply  a  necessity  to  wound  the  leelings  of  any 
one  ;  but  that,  even  if  the  unrestricted  practice  of  truth  in 
society  did  at  first  give  pain  to  selt-love,  it  would,  in  the 
end,  further  the  best  views  of  benevolence  ;  namely,  moral 
improvement. 

There  cannot  be  any  reason   why  offensive  or   liome 


148  ILLUSTRATIOx\S  OF  LYING. 

troths  should  be  volunteered,  because  one  lays  it  down 
as  a  principle  that  truth  must  be  spoken,  when  called 
for.  If  I  put  a  question  to  another,  which  may,  if  truly 
answered,  wound  either  my  sensibility  or  my  self-love,  I 
should  be  rightly  served,  if  replied  to  by  a  home  truth  ; 
but,  taking  conversation  according  to  its  general  tenor — 
that  is,  under  the  usual  restraints  of  decoru  n  and  proprie- 
ty— truth  and  benevolence  will,  I  believe,  be  found  to  go 
hand  in  hand ;  and  not,  as  is  commonly  imagined,  be  op- 
posed to  each  other.  For  instance,  if  a  person  in  compa- 
ny be  old,  plain,  affected,  vulgar  in  manners,  or  dressed 
in  a  manner  unbecoming  their  years,  my  utmost  love  of 
truth  would  never  lead  me  to  say,  "  how  old  you  look  ! 
or  how  plain  you  are  !  or  how  improperly  dressed  !  or 
how  vulgar !  and  how  affected  !"  But,  if  this  person 
were  to  say  to  me,  "  do  I  not  look  old  1  ami  not  plain  % 
am  I  not  improperly  dressed'?  am  I  vulgar  in  manners  V 
and  so  on,  I  own  that,  according  to  my  principles,  1  must, 
in  my  reply,  adhere  to  the  strict  truth,  after  having  vainly 
tried  to  avoid  answering,  by  a  serious  expostulation  on  the 
folly,  impropriety,  and  indelicacy  of  putting  such  a  ques- 
tion to  any  one.  And  what  would  the  consequence  be  1 
The  person  so  answered,  would,  probably,  never  like  me 
again.  Still,  by  my  reply,  I  might  have  been  of  the  great- 
est service  to  the  indiscreet  questioner.  If  ugly,  the  in- 
quirer being  convinced  that  not  on  outward  charms  could 
he  or  she  build  their  pretensions  to  please,  might  study  to 
improve  in  the  more  permanent  graces  of  mind  and  man- 
ner. If  growing  old,  the  inquirer  might  be  led  by  my  re- 
ply to  reflect  seriously  on  the  brevity  of  life,  and  try  to 
grow  in  grace  while  advancing  in  years.  If  ill-dressed,  (*" 
in  a  manner  unbecoming  a  certain  time  of  life,  the  inquir- 
er might  be  led  to  improve  in  this  particular,  and  be  no 
longer  exposed  to  the  sneer  of  detraction.  If  vulgar,  the 
inquirer  might  be  induced  to  keep  a  watch  in  future  over 
the  admitted  vulgarity ;  and,  if  affected,  might  endeav- 
our at  greater  simplicity,  and  less  pretension  in  appear- 
ance. 

Thus,  the  temporary  wound  to  the  self-love  of  the  enqui- 
er  might  be  attended  with  lasting  benefit ;  and  benevo- 
lence in  reality  be  not  wounded    but  gratified.      Besides* 


PAINFUL  RESULTS  OF  LYING.  149 

as  I  have  before  observed,  the  truly  lienevolent  can  always 
find  a  balm  for  the  wounds  which  duty  obliges  them  to  in- 
flict. 

Few  persons  are  so  entirely  devoid  of  external  and  in- 
ternal charms,  as  not  to  he  subjects  for  some  kind  of  com- 
mendation ;  therefore,  I  believe,  that  meaivs  may  always 
be  found  to  smooth  down  the  plumes  of  that  self-love  which 
principle  has  obliged  us  to  ruffle.  But,  if  it  were  to  be- 
come a  general  principle  of  action  in  society  to  utter  spon- 
taneous truth,  the  difficult  situation  in  which  I  have  paint- 
ed the  utterers  of  truth  to  be  placed,  would,  in  time,  be  im- 
possible ;  for,  if  certain  that  the  truth  would  be  spoken, 
and  their  suspicions  concerning  their  defects  confirmed, 
none  would  dare  to  put  such  questions  as  I  have  enumer- 
ated. Those  questions  sprung  from  the  hope  of  being  con- 
tradicted and  flattered,  and  were  that  hope  annihilated, 
no  one  would  ever  so  question  again. 

I  shall  observe  here,  that  those  who  make  mortifying 
observations  on  the  personal  defects  of  their  friends,  or  on 
any  infirmity  either  of  body  or  mind,  are  not  actuated  by 
the  love  of  truth,  or  by  any  good -motive  whatever;  but 
that  such  unpleasant  sincerity  is  merely  the  result  of  coars- 
ness  of  mind,  and  a  mean  desire  to  inflict  pain  and  mor- 
tification ;  therefore,  if  the  utterer  of  them  be  noble,  or 
even  royal,  I  should  still  bring  a  charge  against  them, 
terrible  to  "  ears  polite,"  that  of  ill-breeding  and  positive 
vulgarity. 

All  human  beings  are  convinced  in  the  closet  of  the  im- 
portance of  truth  to  the  interests  of  society,  and  of  the 
mischief  which  they  experience  from  lying,  though  few, 
comparatively,  think  the  practice  of  the  one,  and  avoid- 
ance of  the  other,  binding  either  on  the  christian  or 
the  moralist,  when  they  are  acting  in  the  buisy  scenes  of 
the  world.  Nor,  can  I  wonder  at  this  inconsistency,  when 
boys  and  girls  as  I  have  before  remarked,  however  they  may 
be  taught  to  speak  the  truth  at  home,  are  so  often  tempt- 
ed into  the  tolerated  commission  of  falsehood  as  soon  as 
they  set  their  foot  into  a  public  school. 

But  we  must  wonder  still  less  at  the  little  shame 
which  attaches  to  what  is  called  white   lying,  wlien 


150  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

we  see  it  sanctioned  in  the  highest  assemblies  in  this  king- 
dom. 

It  is  with  fear  and  humility  that  I  venture  to  blame  a 
custom  prevalent  in  our  legislative  meetings  ;  vvliich,  ras 
Christianity  is  declared  to  be  "  part  and  parcel  of  the  law 
of  the  land,"  ought  to  be  christian  as  well  as  wise;  and 
were  every  member,  feeling  it  binding  on  him  individual- 
ly to  act  according  to  the  legal  oath,  should  speak  the 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  Yet,  what  is  the  real 
state  of  things  there  on  some  occasions  1 

In  the  heat,  (the  pardonable  heat,  perhaps,)  of  political 
debates,  and  from  the  excitement  produced  by  collision 
of  wits,  a  noble  lord,  or  an  honourable  commoner,  is  be- 
trayed into  severe  personal  comment  on  his  antagonist. 
The  unavoidable  consequence,  as  it  is  thought,  is  apolo- 
gy, or  duel. 

But  as  these  assemblies  are  called  christian,  even  the 
warriors  present  deem  apology  a  more  proper  proceeding 
than  duel.  Yet,  how  is  apology  to  be  made  consistent 
with  the  dignity  and  dictates  of  worldly  honour  1  And 
how  can  the  necessity  of  duel,  that  savage  heathenish  dis- 
grace to  a  civilized  and  christian  land,  be  at  once  obviat- 
ed %  Oh  !  the  method  is  easy  enough.  "  It  is  as  easy  as 
lying,"  and  lying  is  the  remedy.  A  noble  lord,  or  an  hon- 
ourable member  gets  up,  and  says,  then  undoubtedly  his 
noble  or  honourable  friend  used  such  and  such  words ;  but, 
no  doubt,  that  by  those  words  he  did  not  mean  what  those 
words  usually  mean  ;  but  he  meant  so  and  so.  Someone 
on  the  other  side  immediately  rises  on  behalf  of  the  offend- 
ed, and  says,  that  if  the  offender  will  say  that  by  so  and 
eo,  he  did  not  mean  so  and  so,  the  offended  will  be  per- 
fectly satisfied.  On  which  the  offender  rises,  declares  that 
by  black  he  did  not  mean  black,  but  tohite;  in  short,  that 
black  is  white  and  white  black  ;  the  offended  says,  enough  ; 
— I  am  satisfied!  the  honourable  house  is  satisfied  also 
that  life  is  put  out  of  peril,  and  what  is  called  honour  is 
satisfied  by  the  sacrifice  ONLY  of  truth. 

I  must  beg  leave  to  state  that  no  one  can  rejoice  more 
fervently  than  myself  when  these  disputes  terminate  with- 
out duels  ;  but  must  there  be  a  victim  *?  and  must  that  vic- 
tim be  troth  1     As  there  is  no  intention  to  deceive  on  these 


PAINFUL  RESULTS  OF   LYING,  151 

occasions,  nor  wish,  nor  expectation  to  do  so.  the  soul, tin 
essence  of  lying,  is  not  in  the  transaction  on  tlic  side  of  the 
offender.  But  the  offended  is  forced  to  say  th.it  he  is 
satisfied,  when  lie  certainly  can  not  be  so.  II e  kn  r.vs 
that  the  offender  meant,  at  the  moment,  what  he  said ; 
therefore,  he  is  not  satisfied  when  he  is  told,  in  order  to 
return  his  half-drawn  sword  to  die  scabbard,  or  his  pistol 
to  the  holster,  thai  black  means  white,  and  white  meaud 
black. 

However,  he  has  his  recourse  ;  he  may  ultimately  tell 
the  truth,  declare  himself,  when  out  of  the  house,  unsatis- 
fied; and  may  (horrible  alternative!)  peril  his  life,  or 
that  of  his  opponent.  But  is  there  no  other  course  which 
can  be  pursued  by  him  who  gave  the  offence  1  Must  apo- 
logy to  satisfy  be  made  in  the  language  of  falsehood  1 
Could  it  not  he  made  in  the  touching  and  impressive  language 
of  truth  1  Might  not  the  perhaps  already  penitent  offen- 
der say  "  no  ;  I  will  not  be  guilty  of  the  meanness  of  sub- 
terfuge. By  the  words  which  I  uttered,  I  meant  at  the 
moment  what  those  words  conveyed,  and  nothing  else 
But  I  then  saw  through  the  medium  of  passion  ;  I  spoke 
in  the  heat  of  resentment  ;  and  I  now  scruple  not  to 
say  that  I  am  sorry  for  what  1  said,  and  entreat  the 
pardon  of  him  whom  I  offended.  If  he  be  not  satisfi- 
ed, I  know  the  consequences,  and  must  take  the  respon- 
sibility." 

Surely  an  apology  like  this  would  satisfy  any  one,  how- 
ever offended  •  and  if  the  adversary  were  not  contented, 
the  noble  or  honourable  house  would  undoubtedly  deem  his 
resentment  brutal,  and  he  would  be  constrained  to  pardon 
the  offender  in  order  to  avoid  disgrace. 

But  I  am  not  contented  with  the  conclusion  of  the  apo- 
logy which  I  have  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  offending  par- 
ty; for  I  live  made  him  willing,  if  necessary,  to  comply 
with  the  requirings  of  worldly  honour.  Instead  of  end- 
ing his  apology  in  that  unholy  manner,  I  should  have  wish- 
ed to  end  it  thus  : — "  But  if  this  heart-felt  apology  he  not 
sufficient  to  appease  the  anger  of  him  whom  I  have  of* 
fended,  and  he  expects  me,  in  order  to  expiate  my  fault, 
to  meet  him  in  the  lawless  warfare  of  single  combat,  I  sol- 
emnly declare  that  I  will  not  meet  him  ;  that  not  even  tin 


152         Illustrations  op  lying. 

dread  of  being  accused  of  cowardioe,  and  being  frowned  on 
by  those  whose  respect  I  value,  shall  induce  me  to  put  in 
peril  either  his  life  or  nay  own." 

If  he  and  his  opponent  be  married  men,  and,  above  all, 
if  he  be  indeed  a  christian,  he  might  add,  "  I  will  not,  for 
any  personal  considerations,  run  the  risk  of  making  his 
wife  and  mine  a  widow,  and  his  children  and  my  own  fa- 
terless.  I  will  not  run  the  risk  of  disappointing  that  con- 
finding  tenderness  which  looks  up  to  us  for  happiness  and 
protection,  by  any  rash  and  selfish  action  of  mine.  But,  I 
am  not  actuated  to  this  refusal  by  this  consideration  alone ; 
I  am  withheld  by  one  more  binding  and  more  powerful 
still.  For  I  remember  the  precepts  thaught  in  the  Bible, 
and  confirmed  in  the  New  Testament ;  and  I  cannot,  will 
not  dare  not,  enter  into  single  and  deadly  combat,  in 
opposition  to  that  awful  command,  "  thou  shalt  not  kill  !" 

Would  any  one,  however  narrow  and  worldly  in  his 
conceptions,  venture  to  condemn  as  a  coward,  meanly 
shrinking  from  the  responsibility  he  had  incurred  the 
man  that  could  dare  to  put  forth  sentiments  like  these, 
regardless  of  that  fearful  thing,  ','  the  world's  dread 
laugh  V 

There  might  be  some  among  his  hearers  by  whom  this 
truly  noble  daring  could  not  possibly  be  appreciated. 
But,  though  in  both  houses  of  parliament,  there  might  be 
heroes  present,  whose  heads  are  even  bowed  down  by  the 
weight  of  their  laurels ;  men  whose  courage  has  often 
paled  the  cheek  of  their  enemies  in  battle,  and  brought 
the  loftiest  low  ;  still,  (I  must  venture  to  assert)  he  who 
can  dare,  for  the  sake  of  conscience,  to  speak  and  act 
counter  to  the  prejudices  and  passions  of  the  world,  at 
the  risk  of  losing  his  standing  in  society,  such  a  man  is  a 
hero  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word ;  his  is  courage  of  the 
most  difficult  kind  ;  that  moral  eourage,  founded  indeed 
on  fear,  but  a  fear  that  tramples  firmly  on  every  fear  of 
man ;  for  it  is  that  holy  fear,  the  fear,  of  ood 


rBB  MOST  COMMO.1   OF  ALT.  VICES.        153 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

LYIRO  THE   MOST  COMMON*  OK  ALL  VICES. 

I  HAVE   observed   in  the    preceding  chapter,  and  else- 
where, that  all   persons,  in    theory,  consider   King   as  a 
most   odious,  mean,  and  pernicious  practice.     It  is  also 
one  which  is  more  than  almost  any  other  reproved,  if  not 
punished,   both    in   servants   and   children  ; — for  parents, 
those  excepted,  whose  moral  sense  has  been  rendered  ut- 
terly callous,  or  who  never  possessed  any,  mourn  over  the 
slightest  deviation  from  truth  in   their   offspring,  and  visit 
it   with   instant  punishment.       Who   has   not,  frequently 
heard  masters   and  mistresses  of  families  declaring  that 
some  of  their   servants   were  such   liars    that   they   could 
keep  them  no  longer  1  Yet,  trying  and   painful  as  inter- 
course with  liars  is  universally  allowed  to  be,  since  con- 
fidence, that  hecessafy  guardian  of  domestic   peace  can- 
not exist  where  they  a«;e  •  lying  is   undoubtedly,  the 
most  common  of  ali/vices.     A  friend  of  mine  was 
once  told  by  a  confessor,  that  it  was  the  one  most  fre- 
quently confessed  to  him  ;  and  I  am  sure  that  if  we  en- 
ter society  with  eyes  open  to   detect  this   propensity,  we 
shall  soon  be  convinced,  that  there  are  few,  if  any,  of  our 
acquaintance,  however   distinguished  for   virtue   who  are 
not,  on  some  occasions,  led  by  good   and   sufficient  mo- 
tives, id  their  own   opinion   at  least,  either  to  violate  or 
withhold  the  truth  with  intent  to  deceive.     INor  do  their 
most  conscious  or  even  detected  deviations   from  veracity 
fiH  the  generality  of  the  world  with   shame  or  compunc- 
tion.    If  they  commit   any    other  sins,  they  shrink  from 
avowing  them  :  but  I  have  often   heard  persons   confess, 
that  they  had,  on  certain  occasions,  uttered  a  direct  false- 
hood, with  an  air  which  proved  them  to  be  proud  of  the 
deceptive  skill  with  which  it  was  uttered,   adding,  "  but 
it  was  only  a  white  lie,  you  know,"  with   a  degree  of 
self-complacency  which  showed   that,  in  their    eyes,    a 
white  lie  was  no    lie  at  all.      And  what  is  more  common 
than  to  hear  even  the  professedly  pious,  as  well  as  the 


154  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

moral,  assert  that  a  deviation  from  truth,  or,  at  least, 
withholding  the  truth,  so  as  to  deceive,  is  sometimes  ab- 
solutely necessary  1  Yet,  I  would  seriously  ask  of  those 
who  thus  argue,  whether,  when  they  repeat  the  com- 
mandment "  thou  shalt  not  steal,"  they  feel  willing  to 
admit,  either  in  themselves  or  others,  a  mental  reserva- 
tion, allowing  them  to  pilfer  in  any  degree,  or  even  in  the 
slightest  particular,  make  free  with  the  property  of  an- 
other 1  Would  they  think  that  pilfering  tea  or  sugar  was 
a  venial  fault  in  a  servant,  and  excusable  under  strong 
temptations  1  They  would  answer  "  no  ;"  and  be  ready 
to  say  in  the  words  of  the  apostle,  "  whosoever  in  this 
respect  shall  offend  in  one  point,  he  is  guilty  of  all." 
Yet,  I  venture  to  assert  that  little  lying,  alias  white  ly- 
ing, is  as  much  an  infringement  nf  the  moral  law  against 
"  speaking  leasing,*'  as  little  pilfering  is  of  the  command- 
ment not  to  steal  ;  and  I  defy  any  consistent  moralist  to 
escape  from  the  obligation  of  the  principle  which  I  here 
lay  down. 

The  economical  rule,  "  take  care  of  the  pence,  and 
the  pounds  will  take  care  of  themselves,",  may,  with  great 
benefit,  be  applied  to  morals.  Few  persons,  compara- 
tively, are  exposed  to  the  danger  of  committing  great 
crimes,  but  all  are  daily  and  "hourly  tempted  to  commit 
little  sins.  Beware,  therefore,  of  slight  deviations  from 
purity  and  rectitude,  and  great  ones  will  take  care  of 
themselves ;  and  the  habit  of  resistance  to  trivial  sins 
will  make  you  able  to  resist  temptation  to  errors  of  a 
more  culpable  nature  ;  and  as  those  persons  will  nest  be 
likely  to  exceed  improperly  in  pounds,  who  are  laudably 
saving  in  pence,  and  as  little  lies  are  to  great  ones, 
what  pence  are  to  pounds,  if  we  acquire  a  habit  of  telling 
truth  on  trivial  occasions,  we  shall  never  be  induced  to 
violate  it  on  serious  and  important  ones. 

I  shall  now  borrow  the  aid  of  others  to  strengthen  what 
I  have  already  said  on  this  important  subject,  or  have  still 
to  say  ;  as  1  am  painfully  conscious  of  my  own  inability 
to  do  justice  to  it ;  and  if  the  good  which  I  desire  be  but 
effected,  I  am  willing  to  resign  to  others  the  merit  of  the 
success. 


EXTRACTS  155 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  LORD  BACON,  AND  OTHERS. 

In  a  gallery  of  mornl  philosophers,  the  rank  of  Bacon,  in 
my  opinion,  resembles  that  of  Titian  in  a  gallery  of  pic- 
tures ;  and  some  of  his  successors  not  only  look  up  to  him 
as  authority  for  certain  excellences,  but,  making  him,  in  a 
measure,  their  study ;  thev  endeavour  to  diffuse  over  their 
own  productions,  the  beauty  of  his  conceptions,  and  the 
depth  and  breadth  of  his  manner.  I  am  therefore1,  sorry  that 
those  passages  in  his  Essay  on  Truth  which  bear  upon  the 
subject  before  me,  are  so  unsatifactorily  brief; — however, 
as  even  a  sketch  from  the  hand  of  a  master  is  valuable,  1 
give  the  following  extracts  from  the  essay  in  question. 

" But  to  pass  from  theological  and  philosophical  truth 
— to  truth,  or  rather  veracity,  in  civil  business,  it  will  be 
acknowledged,  even  by  those  that  practise  it  not,  that 
clear  and  sound  dealing  is  the  honour  of  man's  nature, 
and  that  mixture  of  falsehood  is  like  alloy  in  coin  of  g<  Id 
and  silver  which  may  make  the  metal  work  the  better,  but 
it  embaseth  it.  For  these  winding  and  crooked  courses 
are  the  goings  of  the  serpant,  which  goeth  base'y  upon  the 
belly,  and  not  upon  the  feet.  There  is  no  vice  that  does 
so  overwhelm  a  man  with  shame,  as  to  be  found  false  or 
perfidious  :  and  therefore  Montaigne  saith  very  acutely, 
when  he  inquired  the  reason,  why  the  giving  the  lie  should 
be  such  a  disgraceful  and  odious  charge,  "  if  it  be  well 
weighed,"  said  he,  "  to  say  that  a  man  lies,  is  as  much  as 
to  say,  he  is  a  bravado  towards  God,  and  coward  towards 
man.  For  the  liar  insults  God,  and  crouches  to  man." 
Essay  on  Truth. 

I  hoped  to  have  derived  considerable  assistance  from 
Addison;  as  he  ranks  so  high  in  the  list  of  moral  writers, 
that  Dr.  Watts  said  of  his  greatest  work,  "  there  is  so 
mikdj  virtue  in  the  eight  volumes  of  the  Spectator,  such  a 
reverence  of  things  sacred  so  many  valuable  remarks  for  our 
conduct  in  life,  that  they  are  not  improper  to  lie  in  par- 
lours or  summer  -houses.  »o  entertain  one's  thoughts  in  Rnv 


JLO<5  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

moments  of  leisure."  But,  in  spite  of  his  fame  as  a  moral- 
ist, and  of  this  high  eulogium  from  one  of  the  best  authori- 
ties. Addison  appears  to  have  done  very  little  as  an  advo- 
cate for  spontaneous  truth,  and  assailant  of  spontaneous  ly- 
ing ;  and  has  been  much  less  zealous  and  effective  than 
either  Hawkesworth  or  Johnson.  However,  what  he  has 
said    «s  well  said  ;  and  I  have  pleasure  in  giving  it. 

"The  great  violation  of  the  point  of  honour  from  man 
to  man  is; 'giving  the  lie.  One  may  tell  another  that  he 
drinks  and  blasphemes,  and  it  may  pass  unnoticed  ;  but  to 
say  he  lies,  though  but  in  jest,  is  an  affront  that  nothing 
but  blood  can  expiate.  The  reason  perhaps  may  be,  be- 
cause no  other  vice  implies  a  want  of  courage  so  much  as 
the  making  of  a  lie  ;  and,  therefore,  telling  a  man  he  lies, 
is  touching  him  in  the  most  sensible  part  of  honour,  and, 
indirectly,  calling  hiin  a  coward.  I  cannot  omit,  under 
this  head,  what  Herodotus  tells  us  of  the  ancient  Persians  ; 
that,  from  the  age  of  five  years  to  twenty,  they  instruct 
their  sons  only  in  three  things  ; — to  manage  the  horse,  to 
make  use  of  the  bow,  and  to  speak  the  truth." — Spec- 
tator, Letter  99. 

I  know  not  whence  Addison  took  the  extract,  from  which 
I  give  the  following  quotation,  but  I  refer  my  readers  to 
No.  352  of  the  Spectator. 

"  Truth  is  always  consistent  widi  itself,  and  needs  noth- 
ing to  help  it  out :  it  is  always  near  at  hand,  and  sits  upon 
our  lips,  and  is  ready  to  drop  out,  before  we  are  aware  : 
whereas  a  lie  is  troublesome,  and  sets  a  man's  invention 
upon  the  rack  ;  and  one  break  wants  a  great  many  more 
to  make  it  good.  It  is  like  building  on  a  false  foundation, 
which  continually  stands  in  need  of  props  to  keep  it  up, 
and  proves  at  last  more  chargeable  than  to  have  raised  a 
substantial  building  at  first  upon  a  true  and  solid  founda- 
tion :  for  sincerity  is  firm  and  substantial,  and  there  is 
nothing  hollow  and  unsound  in  it;  and,  because  it  is  plain 
and  open,  fears  no  discovery,  of  which  the  crafty  man  is 
always  in  danger.  All  his  pretences  are  so  transparent, 
that  he  that  runs  may  read  them  ;  he  is  the  last  man  that 
finds  himself  to  be  found  out;  and  while  he  takes  it  for 
granted  that  he  makes  fools  of  others,  he  renders  himself 
ridiculous.     Add  to  ftH  this,  that  sincerity  is  the  most  cou>- 


EXTRACTS.  157 

p«ndioti8  wisdom,  and  an  excellent  instrument  for  the  spee- 
dy despatch  of  business.  It  creates  confidence  in  those 
we  have  to  deal  with,  saves  the  labour  of  many  inquiries, 
and  brings  things  to  an  issue  in  a  few  words.  It  is  like 
travelling  in  a  plain  l)eaten  road,  which  commonly  brings 
a  man  sooner  to  his  journey  than  byways,  in  which  men 
often  lose  themselves.  In  a  word,  whatsoever  conveni- 
ence may  be  thought  to  be  in  falsehood  and  dissimulation, 
it  is  soon  over  ;  but  the  inconvenience  of  it  is  perpetual, 
because  it  brings  a  man  under  an  everlasting  jealousy  and 
suspicion,  so  that  he  is  not  believed  when  he  speaks  truth, 
nor  trusted,  perhaps,  when  he  means  honestly.  When  a 
man  has  once  forfeited  the  reputation  of  his  integrity,  he 
is  set  fast,  and  nothing  will  serve  his  turn  ;  neither  truth 
nor  falsehood." 

Dr.  Hawkesworth,  in  the  "  Adventure,"  makes  King 
the.subject  of  a  whole  number  ;  and  begins  thus:—"  When 
Aristotle  was  once  asked  what  a  man  could  gain  by  utter- 
ing falsehoods,"  he  replied,  "  not  to  be  credited  when  Ire 
shaH  speak  the  truth."  "  The  character  of  a  liar  is  at 
once  so  hateful  and  contemptible,  that  even  of  those  who 
nave  lost  their  virtue  it  might  be  expected  that,  from  the 
violation  of  truth,  they  should  be  restrained  by  their  pride;" 
and  again,  "  almost  every  other  vice  that  disgraces  human 
nature  may  be  kept  in  countenance  by  applause  and  asso- 
ciation  The  liar,  and  only  the  liar,  is 

invariably  and  universally  despised,  abandoned,  and  dis- 
owned. It  is  natural  to  expect  that  a  crime  thus  general- 
ly detested  should  be  generally  avoided,  &c.  Yet,  so  it  is, 
that,  in  defiance  of  censure  and  contemp,  truth  is  frequent- 
ly violated;  and  scarcely  the  most  vigilant  and  unremitted 
circumspection  will  secure  him  that  mixes  with  mankind 
from  being  hourly  deceived  by  men  of  whom  it  can  scarce- 
ly be  imagined  that  they  mean  any  injury  to  him,  or  profit 
to  themselves."  He  then  enters  into  a  copious  discussion 
of  tl»e  lie  of  vanity,  which  he  calls  the  most  common  of  lies, 
and  not  the  least  mischievous  ;  but  I  shall  content  myself 
with  only  one  extract  from  the  conclusion  of  this  paper. 
♦'  There  is,  I  think,  an  ancient  law  in  Scotland,  by  which 
^easing  making  was  capitally  punished.  I  am,  indeed, 
far  from  desiring  to  increase  in  this  country  the  auniber  of 


150  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

executions  ;  yet,  I  cannot  but  think  that  they  who  destroy 
the  confidence  of  society,  weaken  the  credit  of  intelligence, 
and  interrupt  the  security  of  life,  might  very  properly  be 
awakened  to  a  sense  of  their  crimes  by  denunciations  of  a 
whipping-post  or  pillory;  since  many  are  so  insensible 
of  right  and  wrong,  that  they  have  no  standard  of  ac- 
tion but  the  lata,  nor  feel  guilt  but  as  they  dread  punish- 
ment." 

In  No.  54  the  same  work,  Dr.  Hawkesworth  says, 
"that  these  men,  who  consider  the  imputation  of  some  vices 
as  a  compliment,  would  resent  that  of  a  lie  as  an  insult, 
for  which  life  only  could  atone.  Lying,  however,"  he 
adds,  "  does  not  incur  more  infamy  than  it  deserves, 
though  other  vices  incur  less.  But,"  continues  he,  "  there 
is  equal  turpitude,  and  yet  greater  meanness,  in  those 
forms  of  speech  which  deceive  without  direct  falsehood. 
The  crime  is  committed  with  greater  deliberation,  as  it 
requires  more  contrivance  ;  and  by  the  offenders  the  use 
of  language  is  totally  perverted.  They  conceal  a  mean- 
ing opposite  to  that  which  they  express  ;  their  speech  ia  a 
kind  of  riddle  propounded  for  an  evil  purpose." 

Indirect  lies  more  effectually  than  others  destroy  that 
mutual  confidence  which  is  said  to  he  the  band  of  society. 
They  are  more  frequently  repeated  because  they  are  not 
prevented  by  the  dread  of  detection.  Is  it  not  astonishing 
that  a  practice  so  universally  infamous  should  not  he  more 
generally  avoided  1  To  think,  is  to  renounce  it ;  anl, 
that  I  may  fix  the  attention  of  my  readers  a  little  longer 
upon  the  subject,  I  shall  relate  a  story  which,  perhaps, 
by  those  who  have  much  sensibility,  will  not  soon  be  for- 
gotten.'' 

He  then  proceeds  to  rplate  a  story  which  is,  I  think, 
more  full  of  moral  teaching  than  any  one  I  every  read  on 
the  subject  ;  and  so  superior  to  the  preceding  ones  writ- 
ten by  myself,  that  I  am  glad  ibtki  is  no  necessity  for  me 
to  bring  them  in  immediate  competition  with  it ; — and  that 
all  I  need  do,  is  to  give  the  moral  of  that  story.  Dr. 
Hawkesworth  calls  the  tale  "  the  Fatal  Effects  of  False 
Apologies  and  Pretences;"  but  "  the  fatal  effects  ofivhite 
lying,"  would  have  been  a  juster  title  ;  and  perhaps,  my 
readers  will  be  of  the  same  Opinion,  when  I  have  given  an 


EXTRACTS.  150 

extract  from  it.  I  shall  preface  the  extract  by  raying  that, 
l>v  a  series  of  white  lies  well-intentioned,  but,  like  all  lies, 
mischievous  in  their  result,  either  to  the  purity  of  the  mor- 
al feeling,  or  to  the  interests  of  those  who  utter  them, 
jealousy  was  aroused  in  the  husband  of  one  of  the  hero- 
ines, and  duel  and  death  were  the  consequences.  The 
following  letter,  written  by  the  too  successful  combatant 
to  his  wife,  will  sufficiently  explai'n  all  that  is  necessary 
fur  my  purpose. 

"  My  dear  Charlotte,]  am  the  most  wretched  of  al! 
men  ;  but  I  do  not 'upbraid  yeu  as  the  cause.  Would  that 
I  were  not  more  guilty  than  you  !  We  are  the  martyrs  of 
dissimulation.  But  your  dissimulation  and  falsehood  were 
the  effects  of  mine.  By  the  success  of  a  lie,  put  into 
the  mouth  of  a  chairman,  I  was  prevented  reading  a 
letter  which  would  at  last  have  undeceived  me  ;  and,  by 
persisting  in  dissimulation,  the  Captain  has  made  his 
friend  a  fugitive,  and  nis  wife  a  widow.  Thus  does  in- 
sincerity terminate  in  misery  and  confusion,  whether  in 
its  immediate  purpose  it  succeeds,  or  is  disappointed.  If 
we  ever  meet  again  (to  meet  again  in  peace  is  impossible, 
but,  if  we  ever  meet  again)  let  its  resolve  to  be  sincere; 
to  be  sincere  is  to  be  wise,  innocent,  and  safe.  We  ven- 
ture to  commit  faults  which  shame  or  fear  would  prevent, 
if  we  did  not  hope  to  conceal  them  by  a  lie.  But,  in  the 
labyrinth  of  falsehood,  men  meet  tlii.se  eu'ls  which  they 
seek  to  avoid  ;  and,  as  in  the  straight  path  of  truth  alone 
they  can  see  before  them,  in  the  straight  path  of  truth 
alone  they  can  pursue  felicity  Avith  success.  Adieu  !  I 
am  ....  dreadful  !  ....  I  can  subscribe 
nothing  that  does  not  reproach  and  torment  me." 

Widiin  a  few  weeks  after  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  the 
unhappy  lady  heard  that  her  husband  was  cast  away  in 
his  passage  to  France. 

I  shall  next  bring  forward  a  greater  champion  of  truth 
than  the  author  of  the  Adventurer  ;  and  put  her  c?use  in» 
to  the  hands  of  the  mighty  author  of  the  Rambler.  Bos* 
well,  in  his  Life  of  Dr.  Johnson,  says  thus  : — 

"  He  would  not  allow  his  servant  to  say  he  was  not  at 
home  when  he  really  was."  "  A  servant's  strict  regard 
for  truth,"  said  he,  "  roust  be-  weakened  by  the  practice. 


160  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYINO. 

A  philosopher  may  know  that  it  is  merely  a  form  of 
denial ;  but  few  servants  are  such  nice  distinguisherg. 
If  I  accustom  a  servant  to  tell  a  lie  for  me,  have  I  not 
reason  to  apprehend  that  he  will  tell  many  lies  lor  him- 
self?"* 

"  The  importance  of  strict  and  scrupulous  veracity," 
says  Boswell,  vol.  ii,  pp.  454-55,  "  cannot  be  too  often 
inculcated.  Johnson  was  known  to  be  so  rigidly  atten- 
tive   to   it,  that,  even   in   his    common    conversation,  the 

*  Boswell  adds,  in  his  own  person,  "  I  am  however 
satisfied  that  every  servant,  of  any  degree  of  intelligence, 
understands  saying,  his  master  is  not  at  home,  not  at  all 
as  the  affirmation  of  a  fact,  but  as  customary  words,  in- 
timating that  his  master  wishes  not  to  be  seen  ;  so  ihat 
there  can  be  no  bad  effect  from  it."  So  says  the  man  of 
the  world;  and  so  say  almost  all  the  men  of  the  world, 
and  women  too.  But,  even  they  will  admit  that  the 
opinion  of  Johnson  is  of  more  weight,  on  a  question  of 
morals,  than  that  of  Boswell ;  and  I  beg  leave  to  add 
that  of  another  powerful-minded  and  pious  man.  Scott, 
the  editor  of  the  Bible,  says,  in  a  note  to  the  fourth  chap- 
ter of  Judges,  "A  very  criminal  deviation  from  simplici- 
ty and  godliness  is  become  customary  amongst  professed 
Christians.  I  mean  the  instructing  and  requiring  servants 
to  prevaricate  (to  word  it  no  more  harshly,)  in  order 
that  their  masters  may  be  preserved  from  the  inconveni- 
ence of  unwelcome  visitants.  And  it  should  be  consider- 
ed whether  they  who  require  their  servants  to  disregard 
the  truth,  for  their  pleasure,  will  not  teach  them  an  evil 
lesson,  and  habituate  them  to  use  falsehood  for  their  own 
pleasure  also."  When  I  first  wrote  on  this  subject,  T 
was  not  aware  that  writers  of  such  eminence  as  those 
from  whom  I  now  quote  had  written  respecting  this 
Lie  of  Convenience  ;  but  it  is  most  gratifying  to  me  to 
find  the  truth  of  my  humble  opinion  confirmed  by  such 
men  as  Johnson,  Scott,  and  Chalmers. 

I  know  not  who  wrote  a  very  amusing  and  humourous 
book,  called  "  Thinks  I  to  myself;"  but  this  subject  is 
admirably  treated  there,  and  with  effective  ridicule,  as, 
■' — '"■*J   •■  worldlv  insincerity  in  general. 


EXTRACTS.  1G1 

slightest  circumstance  was  mentioned  with  axact  precis- 
ion. The  knowledge  of  his  having  such  a  principle  and 
habit  made  his  friends  have  a  perfect  reliance  on  the  truth 
of  every  thing  that  he  TOLD,  however  it  might 
have  been  doubted,  if  told  by  others. 

"  What  a  bribe  and  a  reward  does  this  anecdote  hoi  1 
out  to  us  to  be  accurate  in  relation  !  for,  of  all  privileges, 
that  of  being  considered  as  a  person  on  whose  veracit, 
and  accuracy  every  one  can  implicitly  rely,  is  perhaps 
the  most  valuable  to  a  social  being."      Vol.  iii,  p.  450. 

"  Next  morning,  while  we  were  at  breakfast,"  ob- 
serves the  amusing  biographer,  "  Johnson  gave  a  very 
earnest  recommendation  of  what  he  himself  practiced  with 
the  utmost  conscientiousness  ;"  I  mean,  a  strict  regard 
to  truth,  even  in  the  most  minute  particulars.  "  Accus- 
tom your  children,"  said  he,  "constantly  to  this.  If  a 
thing  happened  at  one  window,  and  they,  when  relating 
it,  say  that  it  happened  at  another,  do  not  let  it  pass  ; 
but  instantly  check  them  ;  you  don't  know  where  devi- 
ation from  truth  will  end.  Our  lively  hostess,  whose 
fancy  was  impatient  of  the  rein,  fidgetted  at  this,  and  ven- 
tured to  say,  ■  this  is  too  much.  If  Mr.  Johnson  should 
forbid  me  to  drink  tea,  I  would  comply  ;  as  I  should 
fori  the  restraint  only  twice  a-day  ;  but  little  variations 
in  narrative  must  happen  a  thousand  times  a-day,  if  (ma 
is  not  perpetually  watching.' — Johnson,  "  Well  madam  ; 
and  you  ought  to  be  perpetually  watching.  It  is  more 
from  carelessness  about  truth,  than  from  intentional 
lying,  that  there  is  so  much  falsehood  in  the  world." 

"Johnson  inculcated  upon  all  his  friends  the  importance 
of  perpetual  vigilance  against  the  slightest  degree  of  false- 
hood ;  the  effect  of  which,  as  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  ob- 
served to  me,  has  been,  that  all  who  were  of  his  school 
are  distinguished  for  a  love  of  truth  and  accuracy,  which 
they  would  not  have  possessed  in  the  same  degree,  if  thf  v 
had  not  been  acquainted  with  Johnson.* 

♦However  Bosvvell's  self-flattery  might  blind  h'.cr, 
what  he  says  relative  to  the  harmlessness  of  servants  de- 
nying their  masters,  makes  him.  an  exception  to  this  gen- 
eral rule. 

L 


l£2  f ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYING. 

4 

**  We  talked  of  the  casuistical  question, *'  says  Bos- 
well,  vol.  iv,  334,  M  whether  it  was  allowable  at  any 
time  to  depart  from  truth." — Johnson.  "  The  genera! 
rule  is,  that  truth  should  never  be  violated  ;  because  it  is 
of  the  utmost  importance  to  the  comfort  of  life  that  we 
should  have  a  full  security  by  mutual  faith  ;  and  occasion- 
al inconveniences  should  be  willingly  suffered,  that  we 
may  preserve  it.  I  deny,"  he  observed  further  on,  "  the 
lawfulness  of  telling  a  lie  to  a  sick  man,  for  fear  ol 
alarming  him.  You  have  no  business  with  consequen- 
ces j  you  are  to  tell  the  truth.'  '"' 

Leaving  what  the  great  moralist  himself  added  on  this 
subject,  because  it  is  not  necessary  for  ray  purpose,  I  shall 
do  Boswell  the  justice  to  insert  the  following  testimony, 
which  he  himself  bears  to  the  importance  of  truth. 

"  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  there  is  much  weight  in 
the  opinion  of  those  who  have  held  that  truth,  as  an  eter- 
nal and  immutable  principle,  is  never  to  be  violated  for 
supposed,  previous,  or  superior  obligations,  of  which, 
every  man  being  led  to  judge  for  himself,  there  is  great 
danger  that  we  too  often,  from  partial  motives,  persuad, 
ourselves  that  they  exist;  and,  probably,  whatever  ex- 
traordinary instances  may  sometimes  occur,  where  some 
eTil  may  be  prevented  by  violating  this  noble  principle,  it 
would  be  found  that  human  happiness  would,  upon  the 
whole,  be  more  perfect,  were  truth  universally  pre- 
served." 

But,  however  just  are  the  above  observations,  they  are 
inferior  in  pithiness,  and  practical  power,  to  the  follow- 
ing few  words,  extruded  from  another  of  Johnson's  sen- 
tences. "  All  truth  is  not  of  equal  importance  ;  but,  if 
little  violations  be  allowed,  every  violation  will,  in 
time,  be  thought  little." 

The  following  quotation  is  from  the  96th  number  of  the 
Rambler.  It  is  the  introduction  to  an  Allegory,  called 
Truth,  Falsehood,  and  Fiction  ;  but,  as  I  think  his  di- 
dactic is  here  superior  to  his  narrative,  I  shall  content 
myself  with  giving  the  first. 

"  It  is  reported  of  the  Persians,  l>y  an  ancient  writer, 
that  the  sum  of  their  education  consisted  in  teaching 
youth  to  ride,  to  shoot  with  the  bow,  and  to  speak  truth 


EXTRACTS,  163 

The  bow  and  the  horse  were  easily  mastered ;  but  it 
would  bave  heen  happy  if  we  had  been  informed  by  what 
arts  veracitv  was  cultivated,  and  by  what  preservations  a 
Persian  mind  was  secured  against  the  temptations  of 
falsehood. 

"  There  are,  indeed,  in  the  present  corruptions  of  man- 
kind, many  incitements  to  forsake  truth  ;  the  need  of 
palliating  our  own  faults,  and  the  convenience  of  impos- 
ing on  the  ignorance  or  credulity  of  others,  so  frequently 
occur ;  so  nianv  immediate  evils  are  to  be  avoided,  and  so 
many  present  gratifications  obtained  by  brail  and  delu- 
sion ;  that  very  few  of  those  who  are  much  entangled  in 
life,  have  spirit  and  constancy  sufficient  to  support  them 
in  thr>  steady  practice  of  open  veracity.  In  order  that  all 
men  may  be  taught  to  speak  truth,  it  is  necessary  that  all 
likewise  should  learn  to  hear  it ;  for  no  species  of  false 
hood  is  more  frequent  than  flattery,  to  which  the  coward 
is  betrayed  by  fear,  the  dependant  by  interest,  and  the 
friend  by  tenderness.  Those  who  are  neither  servile  nor 
timorous,  are  yet  desirous  to  bestow  pleasure  ;  and,  while 
unjust  demands  of  praise  continue  to  be  made,  there  will 
always  be  some  whom  hope,  fear,  or  kindness,  will  dis- 
pose to  pay  them." 

There  cannot  be  a  stronger  picture  given  of  the  difficul- 
ties attendant  on  speaking  the  strict  truth  :  and  I  own  I 
feel  it  to  be  a  difficulty  which  it  requires  the  highest  of 
motives  to  enable  us  to  overcome.  Still,  as  the  old  prov- 
erb says,  "  where  there  is  a  will,  there  is  a  way;"  and 
if  that  wiil  be  derived  from  the  only  right  source,  the  on- 
ly effective  motive,  I  am  well  convinced,  that  all  obsta- 
oles  to  the  utterance  of  spontaneous  truth  would  at  length 
vanish,  and  that  falsehood  would  become  as  rare  as  it  is 
contemptible  and  pernicious. 

The  contemporary  of  Johnson  and  Hawkeswoith,  Lord 
Karnes,  comes  next  on  my  list  of  moral  writers,  who  have 
treated  on  the  subject  of  truth  :  but  I  am  not  able  to  give 
more  than  a  short  extract  from  his  Sketches  of  the  Histo- 
ry of  Man  ;  a  work  which  had  no  small  reputation  in  its 
day,  and  was  in  every  one's  hand,  till  eclipsed  by  tho 
depth  and  brilliancy  of  more  modern  Scotch  philosophers. 

He  says,  p,  169,  in  hie  7th  section,  with  respect  to  ve- 


164  ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    LYIN& 

racity  in  particular  "  man  is  so  constituted,  that  he  must 
be  indebted  to  information  for  the  knowledge  of  most 
things  that  benefit  or  hurt  him  ;  and  if  he  could  not  de- 
pend on  information,  society  would  be  very  little  benefit- 
ted. Further,  it  is  wisely  ordered,  that  we  should  be 
bound  by  the  moral  sense  to  speak  truth,  even  where  we 
perceive  no  harm  in  transgressing  that  duty,  because  it  is 
sufficient  that  harm  may  come,  though  not  foreseen  ,* 
at  the  same  time,  falsehood  always  does  mischief.  It 
may  happen  not  to  injure  us  externally  in  our  reputation, 
or  our  goods; ;  but  it  never  fails  to  injure  us  internally  ;  the 
sweetest  and  most  refined  pleasure  of  society  is  a  candid 
intercourse  of  sentiments,  of  opinion,  of  desires,  and 
wishes  ;  and  jt  would  be  poisonous  to  indulge  any  false- 
hood in  such  an  intercourse." 

My  next  extracts  are  from  two  celebrated  divines  of 
the  Church  of  England,  Bishop  Beveridge,  and  Archdea- 
con Patey,  The  Bishop,  in  his  "  Private  Thoughts," 
thus  heads  one  of  hjs  sections  (which  he  denominates  res- 
olutions ; — ) 

Resolution  in. — Jam  resolved,  by  the  grace  of 
God,  always  to  make  my  tongue  and  heart  go  togeth- 
er, so  as  never  to  speak  with  the  one,  what  J  do  not 
think  in  l/ie  other. 

"  As  my  happiness  consisteth  in  nearness  and  vicinity, 
so  doth  my  holiness  in  likeness  and  conformity  to  the 
chiefest  good.  1  am  so  much  the  better,  as  I  am  the 
liker  the  best;  and  so  much  the  holier,  as  I  am  more 
conformable  to  the  holiest,  or  rather  to  him  who  is  holi- 
ness itself.  Now,  one  great  title  which  the  Most  High  is 
pleased  to  give  himself,  and  by  which,  he  is  pleased  to  re- 
veal himself  to  us,  is  the  God  of  truth  :  so  that  I  shall  be  so 
much  the  liker  to  the  God  of  Truth,  by  how  much  I  am 
the  more  constant  to  the  truth  of  God.  And,  the  farther 
1  deviate  from  this,  the  nearer  I  approach  to  the  nature 
of  the  devil,  who  is  the  father  of  lies,  and  liars  too;  John 
vijl.  44-  And  therefore  to  avoid  the  scandal  and  reproach, 
as  well  as  the  dangerous  malignity,  of  this  damnable  sin, 
I  am  resolved,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  always  to  tune  my 
tongue  in  unison  to  my  heart,  so  as  never  to  speak  any 
thing,  but  what  I  think  really  to  be  trua.     So  that,  if  ev- 


EXTRACTS .  t$5 

er  I  speak  what  Is  not  true,  it  shall  not  be  the  error  of 
my  will,  but  of  my  understanding. 

"  I  know,  lies  are  commonly  distinguished  into  offi- 
cious, pernicious,  and  jocose  :  and  some  may  fancy  some 
of  thetn  more  tolerable  than  others.  But,  fur  my  own 
part,  I  tliink  they  are  all  pernicious  ;  and  therefore,  not 
to  be  jested  withal,  nor  indulged,  upon  any  pretence 
or  colour  whatsoever.  Not  as  if  it  was  a  sin,  not  to 
speak  exactly  as  a  thing  is  in  itself,  or  as  it  seems  to  me 
in  its  literal  meaning,  without  some  liberty  granted  to 
rhetorical  tropes  and  figures  ;  [for  so,  the  Scripture  it- 
self would  be  chargeable  with  lies;  many  things  being 
contained  in  it  which  are  not  true  in  a  literal  sense.] 
But,  I  must  souse  rhetorical,  as  not  to  abuse  my  Chris- 
tian, Wbevly  ;  and  therefore,  never  to  make  use  of  hyper- 
boles, ironies,  or  other  tropes  and  figures,  to  deceive  or 
impose  upon  my  auditors,  but  only  for  the  better  adorn- 
ing, illustrating,  or  confirming  the  matter. 

"  I  am  resolved  never  to  promise  any  thing  with  my 
mouth,  but  what  I  intend  to  perform  in  my  heart ;  and 
never  to  intend  to  perform  any  thing,  but  what  I  am  sure 
I  can  perform.  For,  though  I  may  intend  to  do  as  I  say- 
now,  yet  there  are  a  thousand  weighty  things  that  inter- 
vene, which  may  turn  the  palm  of  my  intentions,  or  other- 
wise hinder  the  performance  of  my  promise." 

I  come  now  to  an  extract  from  Dr.  Paley,  the  justly- 
celebrated  author  of  the  work  entitled  "  Moral  Philoso- 

"  A  lie  is  a  breach  of  promise  :  for  whosoever  seriously 
addresses  his  discourse  to  another,  tacitly  promises  to 
speak  the  truth,  because  he  knows  that  the  truth  is  expect- 
ed. Or  the  obligation  of  veracity  may  be  made  out  from 
the  direct  ill  consequences  of  lying  to  social  happiness ; 
which  consequences  consist,  either  in  some  specific  injury 
to  particular  individuals,  or  in  the  destruction  of  that  con- 
fidence which  is  essential  to  the  intercourse  of  human  life  : 
for  which  better  reason  a  lie  may  be  pernicious  in  its  general 
lendency  ;  and,  therefore,  criminal,  though  it  produce  iil» 

f)articular  or  visible  mischief  to  any  one.  There  are  false- 
joods  which  are  not  lies;  that  is,  which  are  not  criminal, 
as  where  no  one  is  deceived;  which  is   the  case  in  para- 


168  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING* 

bles,  fables,  jests,  tales  to  create  mirth,  ludicrous  embeN 
lishments  of  a  story,  where  the  declared  design  of  the 
speaker  i«  not  to  inform,  but  to  divert;  compliments  in 
the  subscription  of  a  letter  ;  a  servant 'a  denying  his 
master  ;  a  prisoner's  pleading  not  guilty  ;  an  advo- 
cate asserting  the  justice,  or  his  belief  in  the  justice, 
of  his  clienVs  cause.  In  such  instances,  no  confidence 
ts  destroyed,  because  none  was  reposed  ;  no  promise 
to  speak  the  truth  is  violated,  because  none  teas  given, 
or  understood  to  be  given. 

"  In  the  first  place,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  pronounce 
beforehand  with  certainty,  concerning  any  lie,  that  it  is 
inoffensive,  volat  irrevocable,  and  collects  oft-times  re- 
actions in  its  flight,  which  entirely  change  its  nature.  It 
may  owe,  possibly,  its  mischief  to  the  ofiiciousness  or  mis- 
representation of  those  who  circulate  it;  but  the  mischief 
is,  nevertheless,  in  some  degree  chargeable  upon  the  ori- 
ginal editor.  In  the  next  place,  this  liberty  in  conversa- 
tion defeats  its  own  end.  Much  of  the  pleasure,  and  all 
I  he  benefit,  of  conversation  depend  upon  our  opinion  of 
l.he  speaker's  veracity,  for  which  this  rule  leaves  no  foun- 
dation. The  faith,  indeed,  of  a  hearer  must  be  extremely 
perplexed,  who  considers  the  speaker  or  believes  the  speak- 
rr,  considers  himself,  as  under  no  obligation  to  adhere  to 
truth,  but  according  to  the  particular  importance  of 
■tvhat  he  relates.  But,  beside  and  above  both  these  rea- 
sons, wliite  lies  always  introduce  others  of  a  darker  cofti- 
)  lexion.  I  have  seldom  known  any  one  who  deserted  truth 
in  trifles  that  could  be  trusted  in  matters  of  importance .* 

"  IN  ice  distinctions  are  out  of  the  question  upon  occa- 
sions which,  like  those  of  speech,  return  every  hour.  The 
habit,  therefore,  when  once  formed,  is  easily  extended  to 
serve  the  designs  of  malice  or  interest;  like  all  habits,  it 
spreads  indeed  of  itself. 

"  As  there  may  be  falsehoods  which  are  not  lies,  *o 
t'lere  are  many  lies  without  literal  or  direct  falsehood.     An 

*  How  contrary  is  the  spirit  of  this  wise  observation, 
nnd  the  following  ones,  to  that  which  Valey  manifests  ix 
his  toleration  of  servants  being  taught  to  deuy  their  ma^ 


EXTRACTS.  167 

Opening  is  always  left  for  this  species  of  prevarication  when 
the  literal  and  grammatical  signification  of  a  sentence  is 
different  from  the  popular  and  customary  meaning.  It  i« 
the  wilful  deceit  that  makes  the  lie;  and  we  wilfully  de- 
ceive when  our  expressions  are  not  true  in  the  sense  in 
which  we  believe  the  hearer  apprehends  them.  Besidee, 
it  is  absurd  to  contend  for  any  sense  of  words,  in  opposi- 
tion to  usage,  and  upon  nothing  else ; — or  a  man  may  act 
a  lie, — as  by  pointing  his  finger  in  a  wrong  direction, 
when  a  traveller  inquires  of  him  his  road ; — or  when  a 
tradesman  shuts  up  his  windows,  to  induce  his  creditor! 
to  believe  that  he  is  abroad  :  for,  to  all  moral  purposes, 
and  therefore  as  to  veracity,  speech  and  action  are  the 
same  ; — speech  being  only  a  mode  of  action. — Or,  lastly, 
there  may  be  lies  of  omission.  A  writer  on  English  his- 
tory, who,  in  his  account  of  the  reign  of  Charles  the  first, 
should  wilfully  suppress  any  evidence  of  that  Prince's  des- 
potic measures  and  designs,  might  be  said  to  lie  ;  for,  by 
entitling  his  book  a  History  of  England,  he  engages  to  re- 
late the  whole  truth  of  the  history,  or,  at  least,  all  he  knows 
of  it." 

I  feel  entire  unity  of  sentiment  with  Paley  on  all  that 
he  has  advanced  in  these  extracts,  except  in  those  passag- 
es which  are  printed  in  Italic ;  but  Chalmers  and  Scott 
have  given  a  complete  refutation  to  his  opinion  on  the  in- 
nocence of  a  servant's  denying  his  master,  in  the  extracts 
given  in  a  preceding  chapter  ;  and  it  will  be  as  ably  re- 
futed in  some  succeeding  extracts.  But,  eloquent  and  con- 
vincing as  Paley  generally  is,  it  is  not  from  his  Moral 
Philosophy  that  he  derives  his  purest  reputation.  He  has 
long  been  considered  as  lax,  negligent,  and  inconclusive,  on 
many  points,  as  a  moral  philosopher. 

It  was  when  he  came  forward  as  a  Christian  warrior 
against  infidelity,  that  he  brought  his  best  powers  into  the 
field  ;  and  his  name  will  live  for  ever  as  the  author  of  Ev- 
idences of  Christianity,  and  the  Horse  Paulina?.*  I  shaJl 
cow  avail  myself  of  the  assistance  of  a  powerful  and  elo» 

*  I  heard  the  venerable  Bishop  of say  thai  when 

lie  gave  Dr.  Paley  some  very  valuable- preferment,  he  ad* 
Pressed  his  thus**  "  I  give  you  this,  Dr.   Paky,  oo»  to* 


189  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING 

quent  writer  of  a  more  modern  date,  William  Godwin, 
with  whom  I  have  entire  correspondence  of  opinion  on  the 
subject  of  spontaneous  truth,  though,  on  some  other  sub- 
jects, I  decidedly  differ  from  him.  **  It  was  further  pro- 
posed," says  he,  "  to  consider  the  value  of  truth  in  a  prac- 
tical view,  as  it  relates  to  the  incidents  and  commerce  of 
ordinary  life,  under  which  form  it  is  known  by  the  denom- 
ination of  sincerity. 

"  The  powerful  recommendations,  attendant  on  sincer- 
ity are  obvious.  Tt  is  intimately  connected  with  the  gen- 
eral dissemination  of  innocence,  energy,  intellectual  im- 
provement, and  philanthropy.  Did  every  man  impose  this 
law  upon  himself;  did  he  regard  himself  as  not  authorized 
to  conceal  any  part  of  his  character  and  conduct ;  this  cir- 
cumstance alone  would  prevent  millions  of  actions  from 
being  perpetrated,  in  which  we  are  now  induced  to  engage, 
by  the  prospect  of  success  and  impunity."  "  There  is  a 
further  benefit  that  would  result  to  me  from  the  habit  of 
telling  every  man  the  truth,  regardless  of  the  dictates  of 
worldly  prudence  and  custom  ; — I  should  acquire  a  clear, 
ingenuous,  and  unembarrassed  air.  According  to  the  es- 
tablished modes  of  society,  whenever  I  have  a  circumstance 
to  state  which  would  require  some  effort  of  mind  and  dis- 
crimination, to  enable  me  to  do  it  justice,  and  state  it  with 
proper  effect,  I  fly  from  the  task,  and  take  refuge  in  silence 
and  equivocation." 

"  But  the  principle  which  forbade  me  concealment 
would  keep  my  mind  for  ever  awake,  and  for  ever  warm. 
I  should  always  be  obliged  to  exert  my  attention,  lest,  in 
pretending  to  tell  the  truth,  I  should  tell  it  in  so  imper-t 
feet  and  mangled  a  way,  as  to  produce  the  effect  offalse- 
nood.  If  I  spoke  to  a  man  of  my  own  faults,  or  those  of 
his  neighbour,  I  should  be  anxious  not  to  suffer  them  to 
come  distorted  or  exaggerated  to  his  mind,  or  permit 
what  at  first  was  fact,  to  degenerate  into  satire.  If  I 
spoke  to  him  of  the  errors  he  had  himself  committed,  I 
should   carefully  avoid  those    inconsiderate  expressions 

*our  Moral  Philosophy,  nor  for  your  Natural  Theology, 
put  for  your  Evidences  of  Christianity,  and  your  llorsj 
ffcufiofe 


EXTRACTS. 


1S9 


wMdi  niight  convert  what  was  in  itself  beneficent,  Into 
offence,  and  my  thoughts  would  be  full  of  that  kindness 
and  generous  concern  for  his  welfare  which  such  a  task 
necessarily  brings  with  it.  The  effects  of  sincerity  on 
others  would  be  similar  to  its  effects  on  him  that  practised 
it.  Plain  dealing,  truth  spoken  with  kindness,  outspoken 
with  sincerity,  is  the  most  wholesome  of  all   disciplines. 

"     "  The  only  species  of  sincerity  which 

can,  in  any  degree,  prove  satisfactory  to  the  enlightened 
moralist  and  politician,  is  that  where  frankness  is  perfect, 
and  every  degree  of  reserve  is  discarded." 

"  Nor  is  there  any  danger  that  such  a  character  should 
degenerate  into  ruggedness  and  brutality. 

"  Sincerity,  upon  the  principles  on  which  it  is  here  re- 
commended, is  practised  from  a  consciousness  of  its  utility, 
and  from  sentiments  of  philanthrophy. 

"  It  will  communicate  frankness  to  the  voice,  fervour  to 
the  gesture,  and  kindness  to  the  heart. 

"  The  duty  of  sincerity  is  one  of  those  general  principles 
which  reflection  and  experience  have  enjoined  upon  us  as 
conducive  to  the  happiness  of  mankind. 

"  Sincerity  and  plain  dealing  are  eminently  conducive  to 
the  interests  of  mankind  at  large,  because  they  afford 
that  ground  of  confidence  and  reasonable  expectation  which 
are  essential  to  wisdom  and  virtue." 

I  feel  it  difficult  to  forbear  giving  further  extracts  from 
this  very  interesting  and  well-argued  part  of  the  work  from 
which  I  quote  ;  but  the  limits  necessary  for  my  own  book 
forbid  me  to  indulge  myself  in  copious  quotations  from 
this.  I  must,  however,  give  two  further  extracts  from 
the  conclusion  of  this  chapter.  '•  No  man  can  be  emi- 
nently either  respectable,  or  amiable,  or  useful,  who  is  not 
distinguished  for  the  frankness  and  candour  of  his  man- 
ners  He  that  is  not  conspicuously  sincere, 

either  very  little  partakes  of  the  passion  of  doing  good,  or 
is  pitiably  ignorant  of  the  means  by  which  the  objects  of 
true  benevolence  are  to  be  effected."  The  writer  pro- 
ceeds to  discuss  the  mode  of  excluding  visitors,  and  it  i» 
done  in  so  powerful  a  manner,  that  I  must  avail  myself  of 
the  aid  which  it  affords  me. 

♦*  Let  us,  dien,  according  to  the  well-known  axiom  of 


170  ILLUSTRATIONS  DP 'LYING. 

morality,  put  ourselves  in  the  place  of  that  man  upon 
whom  is  imposed  this  ungracious  task.  Is  there  any  of 
us  that  would  be  contented  to  perform  it  in  person,  and  to 
say  that  our  father  and  brother  was  not  at  home,  when 
(hey  were  really  in  the  house  1  Should  we  not  feel  our- 
selves contaminated  by  the  plebeian  lie  1  Can  we 
thus  be  justified  in  requiring  that  from  another  which  we 
should  shrink  from  as  an  act  of  dishonour  in  ourselves  !" 
I  must  here  beg  leave  to  state  that,  generally  speaking, 
masters  and  mistresses  only  command  their  servants  to  tell 
a  lie  which  they  would  be  very  willing  to  tefl  themselves. 
I  have  heard  wives  deny  their  husbands,  husbands  their 
wives,  children  their  parents,  and  parents  their  children, 
with  as  much  unblushing  effrontery  as  if  there  were  no  such 
thing  as  truth,  or  its  obligations ;  but  I  respect  his  question 
on  this  subject,  envy  him  his  ignorance,  and  admire  his  ep- 
ithet PLEBEIAN  LIE. 

But  then,  I  think  that  all  lies  are  plebeian.  Was  it 
not  a  king  of  France,  a  captive  in  this  kingdom,  who  said, 
(with  an  honourable  consciousness,  that  a  sovereign  is  en- 
titled to  set  a  high  example  to  his  people,)  "  if  honour  he 
driven  from  every  other  spot,  it  should  always  inhabit  the 
breast  of  kings  !"  and  if  truth  be  banished  from  every  oth- 
er description  of  persons,  it  ought  more  especially  to  be 
found  on  the  lips  of  those  whom  rank  and  fortune  have 
placed  above  the  reach  of  strong  temptation  to  falsehood. 

But,  while  I  think  that,  however  exalted  be  the  rank 
of  the  person  who  utters  a  lie,  that  person  suffers  by  his 
deceit  a  worse  than  plebeian  degradation,  I  also  assert, 
»qat  the  humblest  plebeian,  who  is  known  to  be  incapable 
^f  falsehood,  and  to  utter,  on  all  occasions,  spontaneous 
truth,  is  raised  far  above  the  mendacious  patrician  in  the 
scale  of  real  resposibility  ;  and  in  comparison  the  plebeian 
becomes  patrician,  and  the  patrician  plebeian. 

I  shall  conclude  my  references,  with  extracts  from  two 
modern  Scotch  philosophers  of  considerable  and  deserve  1 
reputation,  Dr.  Reid,  and  Dr.  Thomas  Browne.* 

*•  Without  fidelity  and  trust,  there  can  be  no  human  so- 

*  This  latter  gentleman,  with  whom  I  had  the  pleas- 
UB©  of  toeing  personally  accjuairtted,  has,  by  his  early  death, 


EXTRACTS.  17 1 

(flety.  There  never  was  a  society  even  of  savages,  nay, 
even  of  robbers  and  pirates,  in  which  there  was  not  a  great 
degree  of  veracity  and  fidelity  amongst  themselves.  Every 
man  thinks  himself  injured  and  ill-used  when  he  is  impos- 
ed upon.  Every  man  takes  it  as  a  reproach  when  false- 
hood is  imputed  to  him.  There  are  the  clearest  eviden- 
ces that  all  men  disapprove  of  falsehood,  when  their 
judgment  is  not  biassed.'" — Reid's  Essays  on  the  Poio* 
er  of  the  Human  Mind,  chap,  vi,  "  On  the  Nature  of  a 
Contract." 

"  The  next  duty  of  which  we  have  to  treat,  is  that  of 
veracity,  which  relates  to  the  knowledge  or  belief  of  oth- 
ers, as  capable  of  being  affected  by  the  meanings,  true  or 
false,  which  our  words  or  our  conduct  may  convey  ;  and 
consists  in  the  faithful  conformity  of  our  language,  or  of 
cur  conduct,  when  it  is  intended  tacitly  to  supply  the  place 
of  language  to  the  truth  which  we  profess  to  deliver 
f»V,  at  least,  to  that  which  is  at  the  time  believed  by  us  to 
be  true.  So  much  of  the  happiness  of  social  life  is  deriv- 
«•  1  from  use  of  language,  and  so  profitless  would  the  mere 
[lower  of  language  be,  but  for  the  truth  which  dictates  it 
that  the  abuse  of  the  confidence  which  is  placed  in  our 
declarations  may  not  merely  be  in  the  highest  degree  in- 
jurious to  the  individual  deceived,  but  would  tend,  if  gene 
ral,  to  throw  back  the  whole  race  of  mankind  into  that 
barbarism  from  which  they  have  emerged,  and  ascended 
through  still  purer  air,  and  still  brighter  shunshine,  to  that 
noble  height  which  they  have  reached.  It  is  not  wonder- 
ful, therefore,  that  veracity,  so  important  to  the  happiness 
of  all,  and  yet  subject  to  so  many  temptations  of  personal 
interest  in  the  violation  of  it  should,  in  all  nations,  have 
hail  a  high  place  assigned  to  it  among  the  virtues." — Dr. 
Thomas  Browne's  Lectures  on  the  Philosophy  of  the 
Human  Mind,  vol.  iv,  p.  225. 

It  may  be  asked  why  I  have  taken  the  trouble  to  quoto 
from  so  many  authors,  in  order  to  prove  what  no"  one 
ever  doubted ;  namely,  the  importance  and  necessity  of 

left  a  chasm  in  the  world  of  literature,  and  in  die  do- 
mestic circle  in  which  lie  moved,  which,  cannot  easily  ha 
(ilied  up.        - 


179  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  LYING. 

speaking  the  truth,  and  the  meanness  and  mischief  of  ut- 
tering falsehood.  But  1  have  added  authority  to  authori- 
ty, in  order  renewedly  to  force  on  the  attention  of  my  rea- 
ders that  not  one  of  these  writers  mentions  any  allowed 
exception  to  the  general  rule,  that  truth  is  always  to  be 
spoken  ;  no  mental  reservation  is  pointed  out  as  permit- 
led  on  special  occasioyis  ;  no  individual  is  authorized  to 
oe  the  judge  of  right  and  wrong  in  his  own  case,  and  to 
set  his  own  opinion  of  the  propriety  and  necessity  of  lying, 
in  particular  instances,  against  the  positive  precept  to  ab- 
stain from  lying ;  an  injunction  which  is  so  commonly  en- 
forced in  the  page  of  the  moralist,  that  it  becomes  a  sort 
of  imperative  command.  StiH,  in  spite  of  lite  universally- 
acknowledged  conviction  of  mankind,  that  truth  is  virtue, 
and  falsehood  vice,  I  scarcely  know  an  individual  who 
does  not  occasionally  shrink  from  acting  up  to  his  convic- 
tion on  this  point,  and  is  not,  at  times,  irresistibly  impel- 
led to  qualify  that  conviction,  by  saying,  that  on  "almost 
all  occasions  the  truth  is  to  be  spoken,  and  never  to  be- 
withheld."  Or  they  may,  perhaps,  quote  the  well-known 
iroveib,  that  "  truth  is  not  to  be  spoken  at  all  times." 
13ut  the  real  meaning  of  that  proverb  appears  to  me  to  be 
pimply  this  :  that  we  are  never  officiously  or  gratuitous- 
ly to  "utter  offensive  truths  ;  not  that  truth,  when  required, 
is  ever  to  be  withheld.  The  principle,  of  truth  is  an 
immutable  principle,  or  it  is  of  no  use  as  a  guard,  nor 
safe  as  the  foundation  of  morals.  A  moral  law  on 
which  it  is  dangerous  to  act  to  the  uttermost,  is,  how- 
ever admirable  no  better  than  Harlequin's  horse,  which 
was  the  very  best  and  finest  of  all  horses,  and  worthy  of 
the  admiration  of  the  whole  world;  but,  unfortunate'y  'he 
horse  was  dead  ;  and  if  the  law  to  tell  the  truth  inviola- 
bly, is  not  to  be  strictly  adhered  to,  without  any  regard  to 
consequences,  it  is,  however  admirable,  as  useless  as  the 
merits  of  Harlequin's  dead  horse.  King  Thedoric,  when 
advised  by  his  courtiers  to  debase  the  coin,  declared,  "that 
nothing  w'hich  bore  his  image  should  ever  lie."  Happy 
would  it  be  for  the  interests  of  society,  if,  having  as  much 
proper  self-respect  as  this  good  monarch  had,  we  could  re- 
solve never  to  allow  our  looks  or  words  to  bear  any  im- 
press, but  that  of  the  strict  truth  4   «nd  were  as  reluc* 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  EXTRACT*.      173 

Co  circulate  light  sovereigns  and  forged  banknotes.  Oh  t 
that  the  day  may  come  when  it  shall  be  thought  as  dis- 
honourable to  commit  the  slightest  breach  of  veracity,  as 
to  pass  counterfeit  shillings  ;  and  when  both  shall  be  deem- 
ed equally  detrimental  to  the  safety  and  prosj>enty  of  the 
community. 

I  intend  in  a  future  work  to  make  some  observations  on 
■everal  collateral  descendants  from  the  large  family  of 
lies.  Such  as  inaccuracy  in  relation;  promise- 
breaking;  ENGAGEMENT-BREAKING,  and  WANT  OF 
punctuality.  Perhaps  procrastination  comes 
in  a  degree  under  the  head  of  lying;  at  least  procrastina- 
tors  lie  to  themselves  ;  they  say  "  I  will  do  so  and  so  to- 
morrow," and  as  they  believe  their  own  assertions,  they 
are  guilty  of  self-deception,  the  most  dangerous  of  all  de- 
ceptions. But  those  who  are  enabled  by  constant  watch- 
fulness never  to  deceive  others,  will  at  last  learn  never  to 
deceive  themselves  ;  for  truth  being  their  constant  aim  in 
all  dealings  they  will  not  shrink  from  that  most  effective 
of  all  means  to  acquire  it,  self-examination 


CHAPTER  XV 


observations  on  the   extracts  from  hawkes- 
ytorth  and  others. 

In  the  preceding  chapter,  I  have  given  various  extracts 
from  authors  who  have  written  on  the  subject  of  truth,  and 
borne  their  testimony  to  die  necessity  of  a  strict  adher- 
ence to  it  on  all  occasions,  if  individuals  wish  not  only  to 
be  safe  and  respectable  themselves,  but  to  establish  the 
interest  of  society  on  a  sure  foundation  ;  but,  before  1 
proceed  to  other  comments  on  this  important  subject,  I 
shall  make  observations  on  some  of  the  above  meotioued 
extract*. 


174  ILLUSTRATION 3  QY  LYING. 

Dr.  Havvkesworth  says,  "  that  the  liar,  and  only  the 
liar,  is  universally  despised,  abandoned,  and  disowned.** 
But  is  this  the  fact  1  Inconvenient,  dangerous,  and  disa* 
greeable,  though  it  be,  to  associate  with  those  on  whose 
veracity  we  cannot  depend  ;  yet  which  of  us  has  ever 
known  himself,  or  others,  refuse  intercourse  with  persons 
who  habitually  violate  the  truth  1  We  dismiss  the  servant 
indeed,  whose  habit  of  lying  offends  us,  and  we  cease  to 
employ  the  menial,  or  the  tradesmen  ;  but  when  did  we 
ever  hesitate  to  associate  with  the  liar  of  rank  and  opu- 
lence 1  When  was  our  moral  sense  so  delicate  as  to  make 
us  refuse  to  eat  of  the  costly  food,  and  reject  the  favour  or 
services  of  any  one,  because  the  lips  of  the  obliger  were 
stained  with  falsehood,  and  the  conversation  with  guile  1 
Surely,  this  writer  overrates  the  delicacy  of  moral  feeling 
in  society,  or  we,  of  these  latter  days,  have  fearfully  degen- 
erated from  our  ancestors. 

He  also  says,  "  that  the  imputation  of  a  lie,  is  an  insult 
for  which  life  can  only  atone:"  And  amongst  men  of 
worldly  honour,  duel  is  undoubtedly  the  result  of  the  lie 
given,  and  received.  Consequently,  the  interest  of  truth 
are  placed  under  the  secure  guardianship  of  fear  on  great 
occasions.  But,  it  is  not  so  on  dailv,  and  more  common 
ones,  and  the  man  who  would  thus  fatally  resent  the  impu- 
tation of  falsehood,  does  not  even  reprove  the  lie  of  con- 
venience in  his  wife  or  children,  nor  refrain  from  being 
guilty  of  it  himself;  he  will  often  perhaps,  be  the  bearer 
of  a  lie  to  excuse  them  from  keeping  a  disagreeable  en- 
gagement ;  and  will  not  scruple  to  make  lying  apologies 
for  some  negligence  of  his  own.  But,  is  Dr.  Hawkesworth 
right  in  saying  that  offenders  like  these  are  shunned  and 
despised  1  Certainly  noi ;  nor  are  they  even  self -rep- 
robated, nor  would  they  be  censured  by  others,  if  their 
falsehood  were  detected.  Yet,  are  they  not  liars  1  and 
is  the  lie,  imputed  to  them,  (in  resentment  of  which  im- 
putation they  were  willing  to  risk  their  life,  and  the  life 
of  another,)  a  greater  breach  of  the  moral  law,  than  the 
little  lies  which  they  are  so  willing  to  tell  1  and  who,  that  is 
known  to  tell  lies  on  trivial  occasions,  has  a  right  to  resenl 
the  imputation  of  lying  on  great  ones  1  Whatever  flatter- 
ing unctions  we  may  lay  to  our  souls*  there  is  only  ono 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  EXTRACTS.        17£> 

wrong  and  one  right ;  and  I  repeat,  that,  as  those  ser- 
vants who  pilfer  grocery  only  are  with  justice  called 
thieves,  because  they  have  thereby  shown  that  the  principle 
of  honesty  is  not  in  them, — so  may  the  utterers  of  little 
lies  be  with  justice  called  liars,  because  they  equally  show 
that  they  are  strangers  to  the  restraining  and  immutable 
principle  of  truth. 

Hawkesworth  says,  "  that  indirect  lies  more  effectually 
destroy  mutual  confidence,  that  band  of  society,  than  any 
others;''  ami  I  fully  agree  with  him  in  his  idea  of  the 
"  great  turpitude,  and  greater  meanness,  of  those  forma 
of  speech,  which  deceive  without  direct  falsehood;"  but, 
I  cannot  agree  with  him,  that  these  deviations  from  truth 
are  "  universally  infamous  ;"  on  the  contrary,  they  are 
even  scarcely  reckoned  a  fault  at  all ;  their  very  frequency 
prevents  them  from  being  censured,  and  they  are  often 
considered  both  necessary  and  justifiable. 

In  that  touching  and  useful  tale  by  which  Hawkesworth 
Illustrates  the  pernicious  effect  of  indirect,  as  well  as  di- 
rect, lies,  "  a  lie  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  chairman,  and 
another  lie,  accompanied  by  withholding  of  the 
whole  tuuth,  are  the  occasion  of  duel  and  of  death." 

And  what  were  these  lies,  direct,  and  indirect,  active 
and  passive  1  Simply  these.  The  bearer  of  a  note  is  de- 
sired lo  say  that  he  comes  from  a  milliner,  when,  in  real- 
ity, he  comes  from  a  lady  in  the  neighbourhood  ;  and  one 
of  the  principal  actors  in  the  story  leaves  word  that  he  is 
gone  to  a  coffee-house,  when,  in  point  of  fact,  he  is  gone  to 
a  friend's  house.  That  friend  on  being  questioned  by  him, 
xoithholds,  or  conceals  part  of  the  truth,  meaning  to  de- 
ceive ;  the  wife  of  the  questioner  does  the  same  ;  and 
thus,  though  both  are  innocent  even  in  thought,  of  any 
thing  offensive  to  the  strictest  propriety,  they  become  in- 
volved in  the  fatal  consequences  of  imputed  guilt,  from 
which  a  disclosure  of  the  whole  truth  would  at  once  have 
preserved  them. 

Now,  I  would  ask  if  there  be  any  thing  more  common 
in  the  daily  affairs  of  life,  than  those  very  lies  and  dissim- 
ulations which  I  have  selected  1 

Who  has  not  given,  or  heard  given,  this  order,  "  do  not 
lay  where  you  come  from ;"   and  often  accompanied  by 


176  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

•'  if  you  are  asked,  say  you  do  not  know,  or  you  come 
from  such  a  place."  Who  does  not  frequently  conceal 
where  they  have  been  ;  and  while  they  own  to  the  ques- 
tioner that  they  have  been  to  such  a  place,  and  seen 
such  a  person,  keep  back  the  information  that  they  have 
been  to  another  place,  and  seen  another  person,  though 
they  are  very  conscious  that  the  two  latter  were  the  real 
objects  of  the  inquiry  made  1  . 

Some  may  reply  "  yes  ;  I  do  these  things  every  day  per- 
haps, and  so  does  every  one ;  and  where  is  the  harm  of 
it  %  You  cannot  be  so  absurd  as  to  believe  that  such  in 
nocent  lies,  and  a  concealment  such  as  I  have  a  right  to 
indulge  in,  will  certainly  be  visited  by  consequences  like 
those  imagined  by  a  writer  of  fiction  Vs 

I  answer,  no ;  but  though  I  cannot  be  sure  that  fatal 
consequences  will  be  the  result  of  that  impossible  thing, 
an  innocent  LIE,  some  consequences  attend  on  all  de- 
viations from  truth,  which  it  were  better  to  avoid.  In  tlie 
first  place,  the  lying  order  given  to  a  servant,  or  inferior, 
not  only  lowers  the  standard  of  truth  in  the  mind  of  the 
person  so  commanded,  but  it  loioers  the  person  who  gives 
it;  it  weakens  that  salutary  respect  with  which  the  low- 
er orders  regard  the  higher ;  servants  and  inferiors  are 
shrewd  observers  ;  and  those  domestics  who  detect  a  lax- 
ity of  morals  in  their  employers,  and  find  that  they  do  not 
hold  truth  sacred,  but  are  ready  to  teach  others  to  lie  for 
their  service,  deprive  themselves  of  their  best  claim  to  res- 
pect and  obedience  from  them,  that  of  a  deep  conviction 
of  their  moral  superiority.  And  they  who  discover 
in  their  intimate  friends  and  associates  a  systematic  habit, 
an  assumed  and  exercised  right  of  telling  only  as  much  of 
the  truth  as  suits  their  inclinations  and  purposes,  must 
feel  their  confidence  in  them  most  painfully  destroyed  ; 
and  listen,  in  future,  to  their  disclosures  and  commu- 
nications with  unavoidable  suspicion,  and  degrading  dis- 
trust. 

The  account  given  by  Boswell  of  the  regard  paid  by  Dr. 
Johnson  to  truth  on  all  occasions,  furnishes  us  with  a  still 
better  shield  against  deviations  from  it,  than  can  bo  afford- 
ed even  by  the  best  and  most  moral  fiction.  For,  as  Lon- 
ginus  was  aaid  "  id  be  himself  the  great  sublime  he  draws," 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  EXTRACTS,       177 

•o  Johnson  was  himself  the  great  example  of  the  benefit 
of  those  precepts  which  he  lays  down  lor  the  edification 
of  others  ;  and  what  is  still  more  useful  and  valuable  tu  us, 
be  proves  that  however  difficult  it  may  be  to  speak  the 
truth,  and  to  be  accurate  on  all  occasions,  it  is  certainly 
possible  ;  for,  as  Johnson  could  do  it,  why  cannot  others  ? 
It  requires  not  his  force  of  intellect  to  enable  us  to  follow 
bis  examp'e  ;  a  1  that  is  necessary  is  a  knowledge  of  right 
and  wrong,  a  revercn  e  for  truth,  and  an  abhorrence  of 
deceit. 

Such  was  Johnson's  known  habit  of  telling  the  truth 
that  even  improbable  things  were  believed,  if  he  narrated 
them  !  Such  was  the  respect  for  truth  which  his  practice 
of  it  excited,  and  such  the  beneficial  influence  of  his  exam- 
ple, that  all  his  intimate  companions  "  were  distinguished 
for  a  love  of  truth  and  an  accuracy"  derived  from  associa- 
tion with  him. 

I  can  never  read  this  account  of  our  great  moralist, 
without  feeling  my  heart  glow  with  emulation  and  tri- 
umph !.  With  emulation,  because  I  know  that  it  must 
be  my  own  fault,  if  I  become  not  as  habitually  the  votary 
of  truth  as  he  himself  was;  and  with  triumph,  because  it 
is  a  complete  refutation  of  die  commonplace  arguments 
against  enforcing  the  necessity  of  spontaneous  truth  that  it 
is  absolutely  impossible;  and  that,  if  possible,  what  wotrid. 
be  gained  by  it  1 

What  would  be  gained  by  it  ?  Society  at  large  would,. 
in  the  end,  gain  a  degree  of  safety  and  purity  far  beyond 
what  it  has  hitherto  known  ;  and,  in  the  meanwhile,  the  in- 
dividuals who  speak  truth  would  obtain  a  prize  worthy  the 
highest  aspirings  of  earthly  ambition, —the  constant  and  in- 
voluntary confidence  and  reverence  of  Uieir  fellow-crea- 
tures. 

The  consciousness  of  truth  and  ingenuousness  gives  a 
radiance  to  the  countenance,  a  freedom  to  the  play  of 
the  lips,  a  persuasion  to  the  voice,  and  a  graceful  dignity 
to  the  person,  which  no  other  quality  of  mind  can  equally 
bestow.  And  who  is  not  able  to  recollect  the  direct  con- 
trast to  this  picture  exhibited  by  the  conscious  utterer  of 
falsehood  and  disingeuuousness  1  Who  has  not  observed 
lb©  downcast  eye,  the  snnpning  restless  eyelid^  tbe-jdjaaig^ 
II 


17#  lLLtTS*rHATIONS  OF  LYING.  *' 

♦ng  odour,  and  the  hoarse,  impeded  voice,  which  some- 
times contradict  what  the  hesitating  lip  utters,  and  stamp, 
on  the  positive  assertion,  the  undoubted  evidence  of  deceit 
and  insincerity  1 

Those  who  make  up  the  usual  mass  of  society  are,  when 
tempted  to  its  common  dissimulations,  like  little  boats  on 
the  ocean,  which  are  continually  forced  to  shift  sail,  and 
row  away  from  danger ;  or,  if  obliged  to  await  it,  are  ne- 
cessitated, from  want  of  power,  to  get  on  one  side  of  the  bil- 
low, instead  of  directly  meeting  it.  While  the  firm  vota- 
ries of  truth,  when  exposed  to  the  temptations  of  false- 
hood, proceeded  undaunted  along  the  direct  course,  like 
the  majestic  vessel,  coming  boldly  and  directly  on,  breast- 
ing the  waves  in  conscious  security,  and  inspiring  confi- 
dence in  all  whose  well-being  is  intrusted  to  them.  Is  it 
not  a  delightful  sensation  to  feel  and  to  inspire  confidence! 
Is  it  not  delightful  to  know,  when  we  lie  down  at  night, 
that,  however  darkness  may  envelop  us,  the  sun  will  un- 
doubtedly rise  again,  and  chase  away  the  gloom  1  True, 
he  may  rise  in  clouds,  his  usual  splendour  may  not  shine 
out  upon  us  during  the  whole  diurnal  revolution  ;  still,  we 
know  that  though  there  be  not  sunshine,  there  will  be  light, 
and  we  betake  ourselves  to  our  couch,  confiding  in  the  as- 
surances of  past  experience,  that  day  will  succeed  to 
night,  and  light  to  darkness.  But,  is  it  not  equally  de- 
lightful to  feel  this  cheering  confidence  in  the  moral  system 
of  the  circle  in  which  we  move  1  And  can  any  thing  in- 
spire it  so  much  as  the  constant  habit  of  truth  in  those  with 
whom  we  live  1  To  know  that  we  have  friends  on  whom 
we  can  always  rely  for  honest  counsel,  ingenuous  reproof, 
and  sincere  sympathy, — to  whom  we  can  look  with  nev- 
er-doubting confidence  in  the  night  of  our  soul's  despon- 
dency, knowing  that  they  will  rise  on  us  like  the  cheering 
never-failing  light  of  day,  speaking  unwelcome  truths  per- 
haps, but  speaking  them  with  tenderness  and  discretion, 
— is,  surely,  one  of  the  dearest  comforts  which  this  world 
can  give.  It  is  the  most  precious  ol  the  earthly  staffs* 
pej-mitted  to  support  us  as  we  go  trembling,  short-sighted, 
and  weary,  pilgrims,  along  the  chequered  path  of  human 
existence* 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  EXTRACTS.       179 

And  is  it  not  an  ambition  worthy  of  thinking  and  res- 
ponsible beings  to  endeavour  to  qualify  ourselves,  .and 
those  whom  we  love,  to  be  such  friends  as  these  1  And 
if  habits  of  unblemished  truth  will  soon  bestow  this  quali- 
fication, were  it.  not  wiser  to  labour  hard  in  order  to  at- 
tain them,  undaunted  by  difficulty,  undeterred  by  the  sneers 
of  worldlings,  who  cannot  believe  in  the  possibility  of 
that  moral  excellence  which  they  feel  themselves  unable  to 
obtain  1 

To  you,  O  ye  parents  and  preceptors  !  I  particularly 
address  myself.  Guard  your  own  lips  from  "  speaking 
leasing,"  that  the  quickly  discerning  child  or  servant,  may 
not,  in  self-defence,  set  the  force  of  your  example  against 
that  of  your  precepts.  If  each  individual  family  would 
seriously  resolve  to  avoid  every  species  of  falsehood  them- 
selves, whether  authorised  by  custom  or  not,  and  would 
visit  every  deviation  from  truth,  in  those  accused,  with* 
punishment  and  disgrace,  the  example  would  unceasingly 
spread ;  for,  even  now,  wherever  the  beauty  of  truth  is 
seen,  its  influence  is  immediately  felt,  and  its  value  ac- 
knowledged. Individual  efforts,  however  humble,  if  firm 
and  repeated,  must  be  ultimately  successful,  as  the  feeble 
mouse  in  the  fable,  was,  at  last,  enabled,  by  its  persever- 
ance, to  gnaw  the  cords  asunder  which  held  the  mighty 
lion.  Difficult,  I  own,  would  such  general  purification  be  ; 
but  what  is  impossible  to  zeal  and  enterprize  1 

Hercules,  as  fabulous  but  instructive  story  tells  us,  when 
he  was  required  to  perform  the  apparently  impossible  task 
of  cleansing  the  Augean  stables,  exerted  all  his  strength, 
and  turned  the  course  of  a  river  through  them  to  success, 
that  nothing  is  impossible  to  perseverance  and  exertion  ; 
and  however  long  the  duration,  and  wide-spreading  the 
pollutions  of  falsehood  and  dissimulation  in  the  world,  there 
is  a  river,  which  if  suffered  to  flow  over  their  impurities, 
is  powerful  enough  to  wash  away  every  stain,  since  it  flows 
from  the  "  fouhtain  of  eyer-liyieg  waters." 


480  ILLVSriUTIONS  OP  LYING 

CHAPTER  XVI* 

RELIGION  THE  ONLY  BASIS  OF  TRUTH. 

All  the  moralists  from  whom  I  have  quoted,  and  those  on 
whom  T  have  commented  in  the  preceding  chapters,  have 
treated  the  subject  of  truth,  as  moralists  only.  They  do 
not  lay  it  down  as  an  indisputable  fact,  that  truth,  as  a 
principle  of  action,  is  obligatory  on  us  all,  in  enjoined  obe- 
dience to  the  clear  dictates  of  revealed  religion.  Therefore, 
they  have  kept  out  of  sight  the  strongest  motive  to  abhor 
lying,  and  cleave  unto  truth,  obedience  to  the  divine 
will  ;  yet,  as  necessary  as  were  the  shield  and  the  buck- 
ler to  the  ancient  warriors,  is  the  "  breastplate  of  faith" 
to  the  cause  of  spontaneous  truth.  It  has  been  asserted 
that  morality  might  exist  in  all  its  power  and  purity,  were 
there  no  such  thing  as  religion,  since  it  is  conducive  to  the 
earthly  interests  and  happiness  of  man.  But,  are  moral 
motives  sufficient  to  protect  us  in  times  of  particular  temp- 
tations 1  There  appears  to  me  the  same  difference  be- 
tween morality,  unprotected  by  religious  motives,  and  mo- 
rality derived  from  them,  as  between  the  palace  of  ice,  fa- 
mous in  Russian  story,  and  a  castle  built  of  ever-during 
stone;  perfect  to  the  eye,  and,  as  if  formed  to  last,  forever 
was  the  building  of  frost-work,  ornamented  and  lighted 
up  for  the  pleasure  of  the  sovereign  ;  but  it  melted  away 
before  the  power  of  natural  and  artificial  warmth,  and  was 
quickly  resolved  to  the  element  from  which  it  sprang 
But  the  castle  formed  of  stones  joined  together  by  a  strong 
and  enduring  cement,  is  proof  against  all  assaihnent ;  and, 
even  though  it  may  be  occasionally  shattered  by  the  ene- 
mies, it  still  towers  in  its  grandeur,  indestructible,  though 
impaired.  In  like  manner,  unassailable  and  perfect,  in 
appearance,  may  be  the  virtue  of  the  mere  moralist ;  but 
when  assailed  by  the  warmth  of  the  passions  on  one  side, 
and  by  different  enemies  on  the  othet,  his  virtue,  like  the 
palace  of  ice  is  likely  to  melt  away,  and  be  as  though  it 
had  not  been.  But,  the  virtue  of  the  truly  religious  man* 
«*en  though  ii  may  on  occasion  be  slightly  shaken,  in 


RELIGION  THE  BASIS  OF  TRUTl*         18  1 

jet  proof  against  any  important  injury;  and  remains, 
spite  of  temptation  and  danger,  in  its  original  purity  and 
power.  The  moral  man  may,  therefore,  utter  spontane- 
ous troth ;  but  the  religions  man  must  :  for  he  remem- 
bers the  following  precepts  which  amongst  others  he  has 
learned  from  the  scriptures  ;  and  knows  that  to  speak  lies 
is  displeasing  to  the  gop  of  truth. 

In  the  6th  chapter  of  Leviticus,  the  Lord  threatens  the 
man  "  Who  lies  to  his  neighbour,  and  who  deceives  hia 
neighbour."  Again  he  says,  "  Ye  shall  not  deal  falsely, 
neither  lie  to  one  another."  We  read  in  the  Psalms 
that  "  the  Lord  will  destroy  those  who  speak  leasing." 
He  is  said  to  be  angry  with  the  wicked  every  day, 
who  have  conceived  mischief,  and  brought  forth  false- 
hood. "  He  that  workelh  deceit,"  says  the  Psalmist, 
"  shall  not  dwell  within  my  house— he  that  telleth  lies 
shall  not  tarry  in  my  sight."  The  Saviour  in  the  8th 
chapter  of  John,  calls  the  devil  "  a  liar,  and  the  father 
of  lies."  Paul,  in  the  3rd  chapter  of  Colossians,  says, 
"  Lie  not  fine  to  another!"  Prov.  vi.  19,  "  The  Lord 
hates  a  false  witness  that  speaketh  lies."  Prov.  ix. 
"  And  he  that  speaketh  lies  shall  perish."  Prov.  xix.  22, 
"  A  poor  man  is  better  than  a  liar."  James  iii.  14,  "  Lie 
not  against  the  truth."  Isaiah  xvii.  "  The  Lord  shall 
sweep  away  the  refuge  of  lies."  "Prov.  xviii.  "Let  the 
lying  lips  be  put  to  silence."  Psalm  cxix.  29,  "  Remove 
from  me  the  way  of  lying."  Ps.  Ixiii.  11,  "  The  mouth 
that  speaketh  lies  shall  be  stopped."  The  fate  of  Gehazi, 
in  the  5th  chapter  of  the  second  book  of  Kings,  who  lied 
to  the  prophet  Elisha,  and  went  out  of  his  presence  "a  le- 
per whiter  than  snow  ;"  and  the  judgment  on  Ananias 
and  Sapphira,  in  the  5th  chapter  of  Acts,  on  the  former  for 

WITHHOLDING  THE  TRUTH  INTENDING  TO  DECEIVE, 

and  on  the  latter  for  felling  a  direct  lie,  are  awful 
proofs  how  hateful  falsehood  is  in  the  sight  of  the  Almigh- 
ty :  and,  that  though  the  seasons  of  his  immediate  judg- 
ments may  be  past,  his  vengeance  against  every  species  of 
falsehood  is  tremendously  certain. 

But,  though  as  I  have  stated  more  than  once,  all  per- 
sons, even  those  who  are  most  negligent  of  truth,  exclaim 
eontinualfy  s^aine!  lyiqg ;    and  liars  cannot  forgjve  the 


182  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

slightest  imputation  against  their  veracity,  still,  few  are 
willing  to  admit  that  telling  lies  of  courtesy,  or  conven- 
ience* is  lying  ;  or  that  the  occasional  violator  of  truth, 
for  what  are  called  innocent  purposes,  ought  to  be  consid- 
ered as  a  liar ;  and  thence  the  universal  falsehood  which 
prevails.  And,  surely,  that  moral  precept  which  every 
one  claims  a  right  to  violate,  according  to  his  wants  and 
■wishes,  loses  its  restraining  power,  and  is,  as  I  have  he- 
fore  observed,  for  all  its  original  purposes,  wholly  annihi- 
lated. 

But,  as  that  person  has  no  right  to  resent  being  called 
a  sloven  who  goes  about  in  a  stained  garment,  though  that 
stain  be  a  single  one  ;  so  that  being  who  allows  himself  to 
indulge  in  any  one  species  of  lie,  cannot  declare  with  jus- 
tice that  he  deserves  not  the  name  of  a  liar.  The  general 
voice  and  tenor  of  Scripture  say  "  lie  not  at  all." 

This  may  appear  a  command  very  difficult  to  obey,  but 
he  who  gave  it,  has  given  us  a  still  more  appalling  one  ; 
"  be  ye  perfect,  as  your  Father  in  heaven  is  perfect." 
Yet,  surely,  he  would  never  have  given  a  command  im- 
possible for  us  to  fulfil.  However,  be  that  as  it  may,  we 
are  to  try  to  fulfil  it.  The  drawing-master  who  would 
form  a  pupil  to  excellence,  does  not  set  incorrect  copies 
before  him,  but  the  most  perfect  models  of  immortal  art  ; 
and  that  tyro  who  is  awed  into  doing  nothing  by  the  per- 
fection of  his  model,  is  not  more  weak  than  those  who  per- 
severe in  the  practice  of  lying  by  the  seeming  impossibil- 
ity of  constantly  telling  tlie  truth.  The  pupil  may  never 
be  able  to  copy  the  model  set  before  him  because  his  aids 
are  only  human  and  earthly  ones.    Jiut, 

He  who  has  said  that  "  as  our  day  our  strength  shall 
be;"  He  whose  ear  is  open  to  the  softest  cry;  He 
whom  the  royal  psalmist  called  upon  to  deliver  him  from 
those  "  whose  mouth  speaketh  vanity,  and  whose  right 
hand  is  a  right  hand  of  falsehood  ;" — This  pure,  this  pow- 
erful, this  perfect  Being,  still  lives  to  listen  to  the  suppli- 
cations of  all  who  trust  in  him  ;  and  will,  in  the  hour  of 
temptation  to  utter  falsehood  and  deceit,  strengthen  them 
out  of  Zion. 

In  all  other  times  of  danger  the  believer  supplicates 
tlR!  Lord  to  grant  him   force  to  resist    temptation ;  but. 


RELIGION  THE  BASIS  OF  TRUTH,       183 

whoever  thinks  of  supplicating  him  to  be  enabled  to  re- 
sist daily  temptation  to  what  is  called  little,  or  white  ly- 
ing ?  Yet,  has  the  Lord  revealed  to  us  what  ppecies  of 
lying  he  tolerates,  and  what  he  reproves"?  Does  he  tell  us 
that  we  may  tell  the  lie  of  courtesy  and  convenience,  but 
avoid  all  others  !  The  lying  of  Ananias  was  only  the  pas- 
sive lie  of  concealing  that  lie  had  kept  back  part  of  his 
man  property,  yet  he  was  punished  with  instant  death  ! 
The  only  safety  is  in  believing,  or  remembering,  that  all 
lying  and  insincerity  whatever  is  rebellion  against  the  re- 
vealed will  of  the  great  God  of  Truth  ;  a-nd  they  who  so 
believe,  or  remember,  are  prepared  for  the  strongest  at- 
tacks of  the  soul's  adversary,  "  that  devil,  who  is  the 
father  of  lies;"  for  their  weapons  are  derived  from  the 
armory  of  heaven  ;  their  steps  are  guided  by  light  from 
the  sanctuary,  and  the  cleansing  river  by  which  they  are 
enabled  to  drive  away  all  the  pollutions  of  falsehood  and 
deceit,  is  that  pure  river  of "  the  water  of  life,  flowing 
from  the  throne  of  God,  and  of  the  Lamb." 

I  trust  that  I  have  not  in  any  of  the  preceding  pages 
underrated  the  difficulty  of  always  speaking  the  truth  ;—  1 
have  only  denied  that  it  was  impossible  to  do  so,  and  1 
have  pointed  out  the  only  means  by  which  the  possibility 
of  resisting  the  temptation  to  utter  falsehood  might  be  se- 
cured to  us  on  all  occasions  ;  namely,  religious  motives 
derived  from  obedience  to  the  will  of  God. 

Still,  in  order  to  prove  how  well  aware  I  am  of  the 
difficulty  in  question,  I  shall  venture  to  bring  forward  some 
distinguished  instances  on  record  of  holy  men,  who  were 
led  by  fear  of  death  and  other  motives  to  lie  against  their 
consciences  ;  thereby  exhibiting  le}ond  a  doubt,  the  diffi- 
culty of  a  constant  adherence  to  die  practice  of  sincerity 
But  they  also  prove  that  the  real  Christian  must  be  miser- 
able under  a  consciousness  of  having  violated  the  truth, 
and  that  to  escape  from  the  most  poignant  of  all  pangs, 
the  pangs  of  self-reproach,  the  delinquents  in  question 
sought  for  refuge  from  their  remorse,  by  courting  that 
very  death  wdiich  they  had  endeavoured  to  escape  from 
by  being  guilty  of  falsehood.  They  at  the  same  time  fur- 
nish convincing  proofs  that  it  is  in  the  power  of  the  sin» 
cere  penitent  to  petrace  hisrtops,  and  lx;  ujinstated  in  tiK 


<£4  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING 

height  of  virtue  whence  he  has  fallen,  if  he  will  humble  him- 
self before  the  great  Being  whom  he  has  offended,  and 
call  upon  Him  who  can  alone  save  to  the  uttermost." 

My  first  three  examples  are  taken  from  the  martyred 
reformers,  who  were  guilty  of  the  most  awful  species  of 
lying,  in  signing  recantations  of  their  opinions,  even  when 
their  belief  in  them  remained  unchanged;  but  who,  as  T 
have  before  observed,  were  compelled  by  the  power  of 
that  word  of  God  written  on  the  depth  of  the  secret  heart, 
to  repent  with  agonizing  bitterness  of  their  apostacy  from 
truth,  and  to  make  a  public  reparation  for  their  short- 
lived error,  by  a  death  of  patient  suffering,  and  even  of  re- 
joicing. 

Jerome  of  Prague  comes  first  upon  the  list.  He 
was  born  at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century ;  and  in 
the  year  1415,  after  having  spent  his  youth  in  the  pur- 
suit of  knowledge  at  the  greatest  Universities  in  Europe, 
— namely,  those  of  Prague,  Paris,  Heildelberg,  and  Co- 
logne,— we  find  him  visiting  Oxford,  at  which  place  he 
became  acquainted  with  the  works  of  Wickliffe  ;  and  at 
his  return  to  Prague  he  not  only  professed  himself  an  open 
favourer  of  the  doctrines  of  that  celebrated  reformer ; 
but,  finding  that  John  Huss  was  at  the  head  of  Wick- 
liffe's  party  in  Bohemia,  he  attached  himself  immediately 
to  that  powerful  leader.  It  were  unnecessary  for  me  to 
follow  him  through  the  whole  of  his  polemical  career,  as*" 
it  is  the  close  of  it  only  which  is  fitted  for  my  purpose  ; 
suffice,  that  having  been  brought  before  the  Council  of 
Constance,  in  the  year  1415,  to  answer  for  what  they 
deemed  his  heresies,  a  thousand  voices  called  out,  even 
after  his  first  examination,  "  away  with  him  !  burn  him  ' 
burn  him  !  burn  him  !';  On  which,  little  doubting  that  his 
power  and  virtuous  resistance  could  ever  fail  him  in  time 
of  need,  Jerome  replied,  looking  round  on  the  assembly 
with  dignity  and  confidence,  "  Since  nothing  can  satisfy 
you  but  my  blood,  God's  will  be  done  !" 

Severities  of  a  most  uncommon  nature  were  now  in- 
flicted on  him,  in  order  to  constrain  him  to  recant,  a 
point  of  which  the  council  were  excessively  desirous.  So 
rigorous  was  his  confinement,  that  at  length  it  brought 
tjpow  him  a  da«g? rous  illneaa,  Tn  the  course  of  which   b# 


RELIGION  THE  EASIS'OF  TRUTH.       183 

entreated  to  have  a  confessor  sent  to  him;  but  he  was 
given  to  understand,  that  only  on  certain  terms  would 
this  indulgence  he  granted  ;  notwithstanding,  he  remained 
immoveable.  The  next  attempt  on  his  faithfulness  was 
after  the  martyrdom  of  Huss  ;  when  all  its  affecting  and 
appalling  details  were  made  known  to  him,  he  listened, 
however,  without  emotion,  and  answered  in  language  so 
resolute  and  determined,  that  they  had  certainly  no  hope 
of  his  sudden  conversion.  But,  whether,  too  confident  in 
his  own  strength,  he  neglected  to  seek,  as  he  had  hitherto 
done,  that  only  strength  "  which  cometh  from  above,"  it 
is  certain  that  his  constancy  at  length  gave  way.  "He 
withstood,"  says  Gilpin,  in  his  lives  of  the  Reformers, 
"  the  simple  fear  of  death  ;  but  imprisonment,  chains, 
hunger,  sickness,  and  torture,  through  a  succession  of 
months,  was  more  than  human  nature  could  bear ;  and 
though  he  still  made  a  noble  stand  for  the  truth,  when 
brought  three  times  before  the  infuriated  council,  he  be- 
gan  at  last  to  waver,  and  to  talk  obscurely  of  his  having 
misunderstood  the  tendency  of  some  of  the  writings  of 
Huss.  Promises  and  threats  were  now  redoubled  upon 
him,  till,  at  last,  he  read  aloud  an  ample  recantation  of 
all  the  opinions  that  he  had  recently  entertained,  and  de- 
clared himself  in  every  article  a  firm  believer  with  the 
church  of  Rome." 

But  with  a  heavy  heart  he  retired  from  the  council ; 
chains  were  removed  from  his  body,  but  his  mind  was 
corroded  by  chains  of  his  conscience,  and  his  soul  was 
burthened  with  a  load,  till  then  unknown  to  it.  Hitherto, 
the  light  of  an  approving  conscience  had  cheered  the 
gloom  of  his  dungeon,  but  now  all  was  dark  to  him  both 
without  and  within. 

But  in  this  night  of  his  moral  despair,  the  dayspring 
from  on  high  was  again  permitted  to  visit  him,  and  the 
penitent  was  once  more  enabled  to  seek  assistance  from 
his  God.  Jerome  had  long  been  apprized  that  he  was  to 
be  brought  to  a  second  trial,  upon  some  new  evidence 
which  had  appeared  ;  and  this  was  his  only  consolation  in 
the  midst  of  his  painful  penitence.  At  length,  the  mo- 
ment so  ardently  desired  by  him  arrived;  and,  rejoicing 
a* ««  opportunity  of  pobliniv  retracting  hie  error?,   and 


WjQ  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

deploring  his  unworthy  falsehood,  he  eagerly  obeyed  the 
summons  to  appear  before  {he  council  in  the  year  1416. 
There  after  delivering  an  oration,  which  was,  it  is  said, 
a  model  of  pathetic  eloquence,  he  ended  by  declaring  be- 
fore the  whole  assembly,  "  that,  though  the  fear  of  death, 
and  the  prevalence  of  human  infirmity,  had  induced  him 
to  retract  those  opinions  with  his  lips  which  had  drawn 
on  him  the  anger  and  vengeance  ©f  the  council,  yet  they 
were  then  and  still  the  opinions  near  and  dear  to  his 
heart,  and  that  he  solemnly  declared  they  were  opinions 
in  which  he  alone  believer!,  and  for  which  he  was  ready, 
and  even  glad  to  die."  "  It  was  expected,"  says  Pogge 
the  Florentine,  who  was  present  at  his  examination, 
"  that  he  would  have  retracted  his  errors  ;  or,  at  least, 
have  apologized  for  them  ;  but  he  plainly  declared  that  he 
had  nothing  to  retract."  After  launching  forth  into  the 
most  eloquent  encomiums  on  Huss,  declaring  him  to  be  a 
wise  and  holy  man,  and  lamenting  his  unjust  and  cruel 
death,  he  avowed  that  he  had  armed  himself  with  a  firm 
resolution  to  follow  the  stepsrof  that  blessed  martyr,  and 
surfer  with  constancy  whatever  the  malice  of  his  enemies 
should  inflict ;  and  he  was  mercifully  enabled  to  keep  his 
resolution. 

When  brought  to  the  stake,  and  when  the  wood  was 
beginning  to  blaze,  he  sang  a  hymn,  which  he  continued 
with  great  fervency,  till  the  fury  of  the  fire  scorching  him, 
he  was  heard  to  cry  out,  "  O  Lord  God  !  have  mercy  on 
me!"  and  a  little  afterwards,  "  thou  knowest,"  he  cried, 
"  how  I  have  loved  thy  truth  ;"  and  he  continued  to  ex- 
hibit a  spectacle  of  intense  suffering,  made  bearable  by  as 
intense  devotion,  till  the  vitnl  spark  was  in  mercy  per- 
mitted to  expire  ;  and  the  contrite,  but  then  triumphant, 
spirit  was  allowed  to  return  unto  the  God  who  gave  it. 

Thomas  Bit.ney,  the  next  on  my  list,  "  was  brought 
up  from  a  child  (says  Fox,  in  his  Acts  and  monuments) 
in  the  University  of  Cambridge,  profiting  in  all  kind  of 
liberal  sciences  even  unto  the  profession  of  both  laws. 
But,  at  the  last,  having  gotten  a  better  school-master,  even 
the  Holy  Spirit  of  Christ  enduing  his  heart  by  privie  in» 
spiration  with  the  knowledge  of  better  and  more  whole- 
some thiqgs,  he  cam**  unto  this  point,  that  forsaking  the 


RELIGION  Ti:H  EASIS  OF  TRUTH.  187 

knowledge  of  man's  lawee  he  converted  his  studie  to  thoso 
things  which  tended  more  unto  godliucsse,  tlian  gainful- 
nesse.  At  the  last,  Bilney  forsaking  the  universitie,  went 
into  many  places  teaching  and  preaching,  being  associate 
with  Thomas  Arthur,  which  accompanied  him  from  the 
universitie.  The  authoritie  of  Thomas  Wolsey,  Cardi- 
nall  of  York,  at  that  time  was  greate  in  England,  but  hi3 
temper  and  pride  much  greater,  which  did  evidently  de- 
clare unto  all  wise  men  the  manifest  vanitie,  not  only  of 
his  life,  but  also  of  all  the  Bishops  and  clergie  ;  whereup- 
on, Bilney,  with  other  good  men,  marvelling  at  the  incredi- 
ble insolence  of  the  clergie,  which  they  could  no  longer  suf- 
fer or  abide,  began  to  shake  and  reprove  this  excessive 
pompe,  and  also  to  pluck  at  the  authority  of  the  Bishop  of 
Rome." 

It  therefore  became  necessary  that  the  Cardinal  should 
rouse  himself  and  look  about  him.  A  chapter  being  held 
at  Westminster  for  the  occasion,  Thomas  Bilney,  with  his 
friends,  Thomas  Arthur  and  Hugh  Latimer,  were  brought 
before  them.  Gilpin  says,  "  That,  as  Bilney  was  con- 
sidered as  the  Heresiarch,  the  rigour  of  the  court  was 
chiefly  levelled  against  him.  The  principal  persons  at 
this  time  concerned  in  Ecclesiastical  affaires  besides  Car- 
dinal Wolsey,  were  Warham,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
and  Tunstall,  Bishop  of  London."  The  latter  was  of  ail 
the  prelates  of  these  times  the  most  deservedly  esteemed, 
"  as  he  was  not  influenced  by  the  spirit  of  popery,  and 
had  just  notions  of  the  mild  genius  of  Christianity  ;""  but, 
every  deposition  against  Bilney  was  enlarged  upon  with 
such  unrelenting  bitterness,  that  Tunstall,  though  the 
president  of  the  court,  despaired  of  being  able  to  soften  by 
his  influence  the  enraged  proceedings  of  his  colleagues. 
And,  when  the  process  came  to  an  end,  "  Bilney,  de- 
claring himself  what  they  call  an  obstinate  heretic,  was 
found  guilty."  Tunstall  now  proved  the  kindness  of  his 
heart.  He  could  not  come  forward  in  Bilney  s  favour  by 
a  judicial  interference,  but  he  laboured  to  save  him  by  all 
means  in  his  power.  *'  He  first  set  his  friends  upon  him 
to  persuade  him  to  recant,  and  when  that  would  not  do, 
ho^oined  his  entreaties  to  theirs  ;  had  patience    with  him 


ISO  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

flay  after  day,  and  begged  he  would  not  oblige  him,  con- 
trary to  his  inclinations,  to  treat  him  with  severity. 

The  man  whom  fear  was  not  able  to  move,  was  not 
proof  against  the  language  of  affectionate  persuasion, 
"  Bilney  could  not  withstand  the  winning  rhetoric  of 
Tunslall,  though  he  withstood  the  menances  of  Warham." 
He  therefore  recanted,  bore  a  fagot  on  his  shoulders  in 
the  Cathedral  church  of  Paul,  bareheaded,  according  to 
the  custom  of  the  times,  and  was  dismissed  with  Latimer 
and  the  others  who  had  met  with  milder  treatment  and 
easier  terms." 

The  liberated  heretics  as  they  were  called,  returned  di- 
rectly to  Cambridge,  where  they  were  received  with  open 
arms  by  their  friends ;  but  in  the  midst  of  this  joy,  Bil- 
ney kept  aloof,  bearing  on  his  countenance  the  marks  of 
internal  suffering  and  incessant  gloom.  '*  He  received 
the  congratulations  of  his  officious  friends  with  confusion 
and  blushes  ;  he  had  sinned  against  his  God,  therefore  he 
could  neither  be  gratified  nor  cheered  by  the  affection  of 
any  earthly  being.  In  short,  his  mind  at  length  preying 
on  itself,  nearly  disturbed  his  reason,  and  his  friends  dar- 
ed not  allow  him  to  be  left  alone,  either  by  night  or  day. 
They  tried  to  comfort  him  ;  but  they  tried  in  vain  ;  and 
when  they  endeavoured  to  sooth  him  by  certain  texts  in 
Scripture,  "  it  was  as  though  a  man  would  run  him 
through  with  a  sword."  In  the  agonies  of  his  despair  he 
uttered  pathetic  and  eager  accusations  of  his  friends,  of 
Tunstall,  and,  above  all,  of  himself.  At  length,  his  vio- 
lence having  had  its  course,  it  subsided  by  degrees,  into  a 
state  of  profound  melancholy.  In  this  state  he  continued 
from  the  year  1629  to  1631,  "  reading  much,  avoiding 
company  ;  and,  in  all  respects,  preserving  the  severity  of 
an  ascetic." 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  in  how  many  different  waya 
our  soul's  adversary  deals  with  us,  in  order  to  allure  us  to 
perdition  ;  and  he  is  never  so  successful  as  when  he  can 
make  the  proffered  sin  assume  the  appearance  of  what  is 
amiable.  This  seems  to  have  been  the  case  with  the 
self-judged  Bilney.  To  the  fear  of  death,  and  the  mena- 
ces of  Warham,  we  are  told  that  he  opposed  a  resolution 
and  an  integrity  which   eould  not  be  overcome  }  bat  the 


HELrGlO*  THE  BASIS  OP  THITTH         1S9 

gentle  entreaties  of  affection,  and  the  tender,  persuasive 
eloquence  of  Tunstall,  had  power  to  conquer  his  love  of 
truth,  and  make  the  pleadings  of  conscience  vain  ;  while 
he  probably  looked  upon  bis  yielding  as  a  proof  of  affec- 
tionate gratitude,  and  that,  not  to  consider  the  feelings  of 
those  who  loved  him,  would  have  been  offensive,  and  un- 
grateful hardness  of  heart. 

But,  whatever  were  his  motives  to  sin,  that  sin  was  in- 
deed visited  with  remorse  as  unquestionable  as  it  was  ef- 
ficacious :  and  it  is  pleasant  to  turn  from  the  contempla- 
tion of  Bilney's  frailty,  to  that  of  Itg  exemplary  and  court- 
ed expiation. 

The  consequences  of  this  salutary  period  of  sorrow  and 
seclusion  was,  that  after  having  for  some  time,  thrown 
out  hints  that  he  was  meditating  an  extraordinary  design  ; 
after  saying  that  he  was  almost  prepared,  that  he  would 
shortlv  go  up  to  Jerusalem,  and  that  God  must  he  glorifi- 
ed in  him  ;  and  keeping  his  friends  in  painful  suspense  by 
this  mysterious  language,  he  told  then)  at  last  that  he  was 
fully  determined  to  expiate  his  late  shameful  abjuration, 
that  wicked  lie  against  his  conscience,  by  death. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  liis  friends  again  inter- 
posed to  shake  his  resolution  ;  but  that  Being  who  had  lent 
a  gracious  ear  to  the  cry  of  his  penitence  and  his  agony, 
M  girded  up  his  loins  for  the  fight/'  and  enabled  him  to 
sacrifice  every  human  affection  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and 
strengthed  him  to  take  up  that  cross,  and  bear  it,  unfaint- 
ing,  to  the  end.  He  therefore  broke  from  all  his  Cam- 
bridge ties,  and  set  out  for  Norfolk,  the  place  of  his  nati- 
vity, and  which  for  that  reason,  he  chose  to  make  the  place 
of  his  death. 

When  he  arrived  there,  he  preached  openly  in  fields, 
confessing  his  fault,  and  preaching  publicly  that  doctrine 
which  he  had  before  abjured,  to  be  the  very  truth, 
and  willed  all  men  to  beware  by  him,  and  never  to  trust 
to  their  fleshly  friends  in  causes  of  religion  ;  and  sd 
3itting  forward  in  his  journey  towards  the  celestial  Jeru- 
salem, he  departed  from  thence  to. the  Anchresse  in  Nor- 
wich, (whom  he  had  converted  to  Christ)  and  there  gave 
her  a  New  Testament  of  Tindall's  translation,  and  "  the 
obedience  of  a  christian-man  ;"  whereupoq  be  was  appr©» 
"kejttded.  and  carried  to  prisma* 


190  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

Nixe,  (tne  blind  Bishop  Nixe,  as  Fox  calls  him)  the 
then  Bishop  of  Norwich,  was  a  man  of  a  fierce,  inquisito- 
rial spirit,  and  he  lost  no  time  in  sending  up  for  a  writ  to 
burn  him. 

In  the  meanwhile,  great  pains  were  taken  by  divers  re- 
ligious  persons  to  re-convert  him  to  what  his  assailants  be- 
lieved to  be  the  truth;  but  he  having  "planted  himselfe  upon 
the  firm  rocke  of  God's  word,  was  at  a  point,  and  so  con* 
tinued  to  the  end." 

While  Bilney  lay  in  the  county  gaol,  waiting  the  arrival 
of  the  writ  for  his  execution,  he  entirely  recovered  from 
that  melancholy  which  had  so  long  opposed  him  ;  and 
"  like  an  honest  man  who  had  long  lived  under  a  difficult 
debt,  he  began  to  resume  his  spirits  when  he  thought  him- 
self in  a  situation  to  discharge  it." — Gilpin's  Lives  of 
the  Reformers,  p.  358. 

"  Some  of  his  friends  found  him  taking  a  hearty  supper 
the  night  before  his  execution,  and  expressing  their  sur- 
prise, he  told  them  he  was  but  doing  what  they  had  daily 
examples  of  in  common  life  ;  he  was  only  keeping  his  cot- 
tage in  repair  while  he  continued  to  inhabit  it."  The 
same  composure  ran  through  his  whole  behaviour,  and  his 
conversation  was  more  agreeable  that  evening  than  they 
had  .ever  remembered  it  to  be. 

Some  of  his  friends  put  him  in  mind  "  that  though  the 
fire  which  he  should  suffer  the  next  day  should  be  of  great 
heat  unto  his  body,  yet  the  comfort  of  God's  Spirit  should 
cool  it  to  his  everlasting  refreshing."  At  this  word  the 
said  Thomas  Bilney  putting  his  hand  towards  the  flame  of 
the  candle  burning  before  them,  (as  he  also  did  divers 
times  besides,)  and  feeling  the  heat  thereof,  "  Oh  \"  said 
he,  "  I  feel  by  experience,  and  have  knowne  it  long  by  phi- 
losophic, that  fire  by  God's  ordinance  is  naturally  hot,  but 
yet  I  am  persuaded,  by  God's  holy  word,  and  by  the  ex- 
perience of  some  spoken  of  in  the  same,  that  in  the  flame 
they  felt  no  heate,  and  in  the  fire  they  felt  no  consumption  : 
and  I  constantly  believe  that,  howsoever  the  stubble  of  this 
my  bodie  shall  be  wasted  by  it,  my  soule  and  spirit  shall  be 
purged  thereby;  a  pain  for  the  time,  whereon,  notwithstand- 
ing, followeth  joy  unspeakable."  He  then  dwelt  much 
^jpop  a  passage  in  Isaiah.     w  Fear  not  for  I  haveredeenv 


RELHilON  THE  BASli  OF  TRUTH.        191 

ed  thee,  and  called  thee  by  thy  name.  Thou  art  mine 
own;    when  thoa  passes!  through  the  waters,  I  will  be 

with  thee;  when  thou  wall.i  st-iu  the  fire,  it  shall  not  burn 
tliee,  and  ti:e  flame  shall  not  kindle  upon  thee  ;  for  I  am 
the  Lord  thy  God,  the  Holy  One  of  Israel.  ' 

"He  was  led  to  the  place  of  execution*  without  the  «tie 

*  "  In  the  Lollard's  pit,  I  find  that  many  persons  of  a 
sect  known  by  the  name  of  Lollards,  in  the  city  of  Nor- 
wich, were  thrown,  after  being  burnt,  in  the  year  1424, 
and  for  many  years  afterwards  ;  and  thence  it  was  called 
the  Lollard's  pit :  and  the  following  account  of  the  mean- 
ing of  the  term  Lollard  may  not  be  unacceptable.  Soon 
after  the  commencement  of  the  14th  century,  the  famous 
sect  of  the  Cellite  brethren  and  sisters  arose  at  Antwerp: 
they  were  also  styled  the  Alexian  brethren  and  sisters, 
because  St.  Alexius  was  their  patron  ;  and  they  were 
named  Cellites,  from  the  cells  in  which  they  were  ac- 
customed to  live.  As  the  clergy  of  this  age  took  little 
care  of  the  sick  and  the  dying,  and  deserted  such  as 
were  infected  with  those  pestilential  disorders  which  were 
then  very  frequent,  some  compassionate  and  pious  per- 
sons tit  Antwerp  formed  themselves  into  a  society  for  the 
performance  of  those  religious  offices  which  the  sacerdotal 
orders  so  shamefully  neglected.  In  the  prosecution  of  this 
agreement,  they  visited  and  comforted  the  sick,  assisted 
the  dying  with  their  prayers  and  exhortations,  took  care 
of  the  interment  of  those  who  were  cut  off  by  the  plague, 
and  on  that  account  forsaken  by  the  terrified  clergy,  and 
committed  them  to  the  grave  with  a  solemn  funeral 
dirge.  It  was  with  reference  to  this  last  office  thai  the 
common  people  gave  them  the  name  of  Lollards.  The 
term  Lollhard,  or  Lullhard,  or  as  the  ancient  Germans 
wrote  it,  Lollert,  Lullert,  is  compounded  of  the  old  Ger- 
man word  lullen,  lollan,  lallen,  and  the  well-known  ter- 
mination of  hard,  with  which  many  of  the  old  High  Dutch 
words  end.  Lollen,  or  Lullen,  signifies  to  sing  with  a  low 
voice.  It  is  yet  used  in  the  same  sense  among  the  English, 
who  say  lulla  sleep,  which  signifies  to  sing  any  one  into  a 
slumber  with  a  sweet  indistinct  voice. 

•*  Lollhard.,  therefore,  is  a  singer,  or  one  u4k>  frequently 


ff&*  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYINtt. 

I  [ate,  called  Bishop's  gate,  in  a  low  valley,  commonly  cat 
ed  the  Lollard's  pit,  under  Saint  Leonard's  hill."  At 
the  coming  forth  of  the  said  Thomas  Bilney  out  of  the 
prison  doore,  one  of  his  friends  came  to  him,  and  with  few 
words  as  he  durst,  speak  to  him,  and  prayed  him,  in  God's 
behalf,  to  be  constant,  and  to  take  his  death  patiently  as 
he  could.  VV hereunto  the  said  Bilney  answered  with  a 
quiet  and  mild  countenance,  "  ye  see  when  the  mariner  is 
entered  his  ship  to  saile  on  the  troublous  sea,  how  he  is 
for  a  while  tossed  in  the  billows  of  the  same,  but  yet  in 
hope  that  he  shall  come  to  the  quiet  haven,  he  beareth  in 
better  comfort  the  perils  which  he  feeleth ;  so  am  I  now 
towards  this  sayling  ;  and  whatsoever  stormes  I  shall  feele 

Bings.  For,  as  the  word  beggen,  which  universally  signi- 
fies to  request  any  thing  fervently,  is  applied  to  devotion- 
al requests,  or  prayers,  so  the  word  lollen  or  lallen  is 
transferred  from  a  common  to  a  sacred  song,  and  signi- 
fies, in  its  most  limited  sense,  to  sing  a  hymn.  Lollhard, 
therefore,  in  the  vulgar  tongue  of  the  ancient  Germans,  de- 
notes a  person  who  is  continually  praising  God  with  a  song, 
or  singing  hymns  to  his  honour. 

"  Ar.d  .is  prayers  and  hymns  are  regarded  as  an  exter- 
nal sign  of  piety  towards  God,  those  who  were  more  fre- 
quently employed  in  singing  hymns  of  praise  to  God 
than  others,  were,  in  the  common  popular  language,  call- 
ed Lollhards." 

"  But  the  priests,  and  monks,  being  inveterately  exas- 
perated against  these  good  men,  endeavoured  to  persuade 
the  people  that,  innocent  and  beneficent  as  the  Lollards 
appeared  to  be,  they  were  tainted  with  the  most  pernicious 
sentiments  of  a  religion  kind,  and  secretly  addicted  to  all 
sorts  of  vices  ;  hence  the  name  of  Lollard  at  length  became 
infamous.  Thus,  by  degrees,  it  came  to  pass,  that  any 
person  who  covered  heresies,  or  crimes,  under  the  appear- 
ance of  piety,  was  called  a  Lollard,  so  that  this  was  not  a 
name  to  denote  any  one  particular  sect,  but  was  formerly 
common  to  all  persons,  and  all  sects,  who  were  supposed 
to  be  guilty  of  impiety  towards  God,  and  the  church,  un- 
der an  external  profession  of  extraordinary  piejy." — Mao 
(cwi'#  Eccle*.  History,  p.  555-56 


RELIGION  THE  BASIS  OF  TRUTH.  193 

yet  shortly  after  Bhall  my  ship  be  in  the  haven,  as  I  doubt 
not  thereof,  by  the  grace  of  God,  desiring  you  to  helpe  me 
with  your  prayers  to  the  same  effect." 

While  he  kneeled  upon  a  little  ledge  coming  out  of  the 
stake,  upon  which  he  was  afterwards  to  stand,  that  he 
might  be  better  seen,  lie  made  his  private  prayers  with 
Bucfa  earnest  elevation  of  his  eyes'  and  hands  to  heaven, 
"  and  in  so  good  quiet  behaviour,  that  he  seemed  not  much 
to  consider  the  terror  of  his  death,"  ending  his  prayer  u  itli 
the  43d  psalm,  in  which  he  repeated  this  verse  thrice, 
"Enter  not  into  judgment  with  thy  servant,  O  Lord  !  for 
in  thy  sight  shall  no  man  living  be  justified;"  and  so  fin- 
ishing the  psalm,  he  concluded.  "  Nor  did  that  God  in 
whom  he  trusted  forsake  him  in  the  hour  of  his  ntwt; 
while  the  flames  raged  around  him,  he  held  up  his  hands 
and  knocked  upon  his  breast,  crying,  "  Jesus,"  and  ?o<ite- 
times  "  Credo,"  till  he  gave  up  the  ghost,  and  his  body 
being  withered,  bowed  downward  upon  thechaine,  "while, 
triumphing  over  death,  (to  use  the  words  of  the  poet  lau- 
reate) "  he  rendered  up  his  soul  in  the  fulness  of  faith,  and 
entered  into  his  reward." 

"  So  exemplary,'"  says  Bloomfield,  in  his  History  of 
Norwich,  "  was  Bilney's  life  and  conversation,  that  when 
Nixe,  his  persecutor,  was  constantly  told  how  holy 
and  upright  he  was,  he  said  he  feared  that  he  had  burnt 
Abel." 

I  have  recently  visited  the  Lollard's  pit :  that  spot 
where  my  interesting  martyred  countryman  met  his  dread- 
ful death.  The  top  of  the  hill  retains,  probably,  much  the 
same  appearance  as  it  had  when  he  perished  at  its  foot ; 
and,  without  any  great  exertion  of  fancy,  it  would  have 
been  easy  for  me  to  figure  myself  the  rest  of  the  scene, 
could  I  have  derived  sufficient  comfort  from  the  remem- 
brance of  the  fortitude  with  which  he  bore  his  sufferings, 
to  reconcile  me  to  the  contemplation  of  them.  Still,  it  is 
I  believe,  salutary  to  visit  the  places  hallowed  in  the  mem- 
ory, as  marked  by  an  exhibition  of  virtuous  acts  and  suf- 
ferings endured  for  the  sake  of  conscience.  To  the  scaf- 
fold, and  to  the  stake,  on  account  of  their  religious  opin- 
ions, it  is  humbly  to  be  hoped  that  Christians  will  never 
again  be  brought.     But  all  persecution,  on  the  ecore  of 


MM  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

religion,  is,  in  a  degree,  an  infliction  of  martyrdom  on  the 
mind  and  on  the  heart.  It  matters  not  that  we  forbear  to 
kill  the  body  of  the  Christian,  if  we  afflict  the  soul  by  aught 
of  a  persecuting  spirit. 

Yet  does  not  our  daily  experience  testify,  that  there  is 
nothing  which  calls  forth  petty  persecutions,  and  the  mean 
warfare  of  a  detracting  spirit,  so  much  as  any  marked  re- 
ligious profession  1 

And  while  such  a  profession  is  assailed,  by  ridicule  on 
the  one  hand,  by  distrust  of  its  motives  on  the  other;  while 
it  exposes  the  serious  Christian,  converted  from  the  errors 
of  former  days,  to  the  stigma  of  wild  enthusiasm,  or  of  re- 
ligious hypocrisy ;  who  shall  say  that  the  persecuting  spirit 
of  the  Lauds  and  the  Bonners  is  not  still  the  spirit  of  the 
world  1  Who  shall  say  to  the  tried  and  shrinking  souls 
of  those  who,  on  account  of  their  having  made  a  religious 
profession,  are  thus  calumniated,  and  thus  judged,  the  time 
of  martyrdom  is  over,  and  we  live  in  mild,  and  liberal,  and 
truly  Christian  days  1 

Such  were  the  thoughts  uppermost  in  my  mind,  while  I 
stood,  perhaps,  on  the  very  spot  where  Bilney  suffered, 
and  where  Bilney  died  ;  and  though  I  rejoiced  to  see  that 
the  harmless  employment  of  the  lime-burner  had  succeeded 
to  the  frightful  burning  of  the  human  form,  I  could  not  but 
sigh  as  I  turned  away,  while  I  remembered  that  so  much 
of  an  intolerant,  uncandid  spirit  still  prevailed  amongst 
professed  Christians,  and,  that  the  practice  of  persecution 
still  existed,  though  applied  in  a  very  different  manner. 
I  could  not  but  think,  that  many  of  the  present  generation 
might  do  well  to  visit  scenes  thus  fraught  with  the  recol- 
lection of  martyrdom.  If  it  be  true  that  "  our  love  of  free- 
dom would  burn  brighter  on  the  plains  of  Marathon,"  and 
that  our  devotion  "  must  glow  more  warmly  amidst  the 
ruins  of  lona,  sure  am  I  that  the  places  where  the  martyrs 
for  conscience'  sake  have  passed  through  the  portals  of 
fife  and  ngony  to  their  God,  must  assist  in  bestowing  on 
us  power  to  endure  with  fortitude  the  mental  martyrdom 
which  may,  unexpectedly,  become  our  portion  in  life ; 
and  by  recalling  the  sufferings  of  others,  we  may,  meek- 
ly bowing  to  the  hand  that  afflicts  us  for  good,  be  in  time, 
wnabiod  in  bear,  and  even  to  love,  our  own. 


RELIGION  THE  BASIS  OF  TRUTH.         19-. 

The  last,  and  third,  on  my  list,  is  Thomas  Cranmer 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  who  was  promoted  to  that  See 
by  the  favour  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  and  degraded  from  it 
in  consequence  of  his  heretical  opinions,  by  virtue  of  an 
order  from  the  sovereign  pontiff,  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Mary.  "  The  ceremony  of  his  degradation,"  says  Gilpin, 
which  took  place  at  Oxford,  "  was  performed  by  Thirl- 
by,  Bishop  of  Ely,  a  man  recently  converted,  it  should 
seem,  to  Catholicism  ;  who,  in  Cranmer's  better  days,  had 
been  honoured  with  his  particular  friendship,  and  owed 
him  many  obligations. 

As  this  man,  therefore,  had  long  been  so  much  attach- 
ed to  the  Archbishop,  it  was  thought  proper  by  his  new 
friends  that  he  should  give  an  extraordinary  test  of  his 
zeal  1  for  this  reason  the  ceremony  of  his  degradation  was 
committed  to  him.  He  had  undertaken,  however,  too 
hard  a  task.  The  mild  benevolence  of  the  primate,  which 
shone  forth  with  great  dignity,  though  he  Stood  in  the 
mock  grandeur  of  canvas  robes,  struck  the  old  apostate  to 
the  heart.  All  the  past  came  throbbing  to  his  breast, 
and  a  few  repentant  tears  began  to  trickle  down  the  fur- 
rows of  his  aged  cheek.  The  Archbishop  gently  exhort- 
ed him  not  to  suffer  his  private  to  overpower  his  public 
affections.  At  length,  one  by  one,  the  canvas  trappings 
were  taken  off,  amidst  the  taunts  and  exultations  of 
Bonner,  bishop  of  London,  who  was  present  at  the  cere- 
mony. 

Thus  degraded,  he  was  attired  in  a  plain  freize  gown, 
the  common  habit  of  a  yeoman  at  that  period,  and  bad 
what  was  then  called  a  townsman's  cap  upon  his  head. 
In  this  garb  he  was  carried  back  to  prison,  Bonner  cry- 
ing after  him,  "  He  is  now  no  longer  my  Lord  !  he  is  now 
no  longer  my  Lord  !" — Gilpin's  Lives  of  the  Refor- 
mers. 

I  know  not  what  were  Cranmer's  feelings  at  these  ex- 
pressions of  mean  exultation  from  the  contemptible  Bon- 
ner; but,  I  trust  that  he  treated  them,  and  the  ceremony 
of  degradation  at  the  time,  with  the  indifference  which 
they  merited.  Perhaps,  too,  he  might  utter  within  him"-, 
self,  this  serious  and  important  truth,  that  none  of  us  can 
ever  be  truly  degraded,  but  by  ourselves  alone;  and 


196  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP    LYING. 

this  moment  of  his  external  humiliation  was,  in  the  eyes 
of  all  whose  esteem  was  worth  having,  one  of  triumph  and 
honour  to  the  bereaved  ecclesiastick.  But  what,  alas  ! 
were  those  which  succeeded  to  it  1  That  period,  and  that 
alone,  was  the  period  of  his  real  degradation,  when, 
overcome  by  the  flatteries  and  the  kindness  of  his  real 
and  seeming  friends,  and  subdued  by  the  entertainments 
given  him,  the  amusements  offered  him,  and,  allowed  to 
indulge  in  the  "  lust  of  the  eye,  and  the  pride  of  life,"  he 
was  induced  to  lend  a  willing  ear  to  the  proposal  of  be- 
ing reinstated  in  his  former  dignity,  on  condition  that  he 
wouid  conform  to  the  present  change  of  religion,  and 
"  gratify  the  queen  by  being  wholly  a  catholic  !" 

The  adversary  of  man  lured  Cranmer,  as  well  as  Bil- 
ney,  by  the  unsuspected  influence  of  mild  and  amiable 
feelings,  rather  than  the  instigations  of  fear  ;  and  he  who 
was  armed  to  resist,  to  the  utmost,  the  rage  and  malice 
of  his  enemies,  was  drawn  aside  from  truth  and  duty  by 
the  suggestions  of  false  friends. 

After  the  confinement  of  a  full  year  in  the  gloomy  walls 
of  a  prison,  his  sudden  return  into  social  intercourse  dis- 
sipated his  firm  resolves.  That  love  of  life  returned, 
which  he  had  hitherto  conquered  ;  and  when  a  paper  was 
offered  to  him,  importing  his  assent  to  the  tenets  of  popery 
his  better  resolutions  gave  way,  and  in  an  evil  hour  ha 
signed  the  fatal  scroll ! 

Cranmer 's  recantation  was  received  by  the  popish  par- 
ty with  joy  beyond  expression;  but,  as  all  they  wanted 
was  to  blast  the  reputation  of  a  man,  whose  talents, 
learning,  and  virtue,  were  of  such  great  importance  to  the 
cause  which  he  espoused,  they  had  no  sooner  gained  what 
they  desired,  than  their  thirst  for  his  blood  returned,  and 
though  he  was  kept  in  ignorance  of  the  fate  which  awaited 
him,  a  warrant  was  ordered  for  his  execution  with  all 
possible  expedition. 

But  long  before  the  certainty  of  his  approaching  fate 
was  made  known  to  him,  the  self-convicted  culprit 'sighed 
for  the  joy  and  the  serenity  which  usually  attend  the  last 
days  of  a  martyr  for  the  truth  which  he  loves. 

Vainly  did  his  friends  throw  over  his  faults  the  balm  af- 
forded by  those  healing  words,  "  the   spirit  was  willing. 


RELIGION  THE  BASIS  OF  TRUTH.  101 

but  the  flesh  was  weak."  In  his  own  clear  judgment  he 
was  fully  convicted,  while  his  days  were  passed  in  horror 
and  remorse,  and  his  nights  in  sleepless  anguish. 

To  persevere  in  his  recantation  wao  an  insupportable 
thought ;  but,  to  retract  it  was  scarcely  within  the  verge 
of  possibility  ;  but  he  was  allowed  an  opportunity  of  doing 
so  which  he  did  not  expect,  and  though  death  was  the 
means  of  it,  he  felt  thankful  that  it  was  aflbi\Ied  him,  and 
deemed  his  life  a  sacrifice  not  to  be  regarded  for  the  at- 
tainment >  f  such  an  ohject. 

When  Dr.  Cole,  one  of  the  heads  of  the  popish  party, 
came  to  him  on  the  twentieth  of  March,  the  evening  pre- 
ceding his  intended  execution,  and  insinuated  to  him  his 
approaching  fate,  he  spent  the  remaining  part  of  the  even- 
ing in  drawing  up  a  full  confession  of  his  apostacy,  and 
of  his  bitter  repentance,  wishing  to  take  the  best  oppor- 
tunity to  speak  or  publish  it,  which  he  supposed  would  be 
afforded  him  when  he  was  carried  to  the  slake  ;  but,  be- 
yond his  expectation,  a  better  was  provided  for  him.  It 
was  intended  that  he  should  be  conveyed  immediately  from 
his  prison  t*>  the  place  of  his  execution,  where  a  sermon 
was  to  be  preached  ;  but  as  the  morning  of  the  appointed 
day  was  wet  and  stormy,  the  ceremony  was  performed 
under  cover. 

About  nine  o'clock,  the  Lord  Williams  of  thame,  at- 
tended by  the  magistrates  of  Oxford,  received  him  at  the 
prison  gate,  and  conveyed  him  to  St.  Mary's  church", 
where  he  found  a  crowded  audience  awaiting  him,  he  was 
conducted  to  an  elevated  place,  in  public  view,  opposite 
the  pulpit.  If  ever  there  was  a  broken  and  a  contrite 
heart  before  God  and  man  ;  if  ever  there  was  a  person 
humble  in  the  very  depths  of  his  soul,  from  the  conscious- 
ness of  having  committed  sin,  and  of  having  deserved  the 
extreme  of  earthly  shame  and  earthly  suffering  ;  that  man 
was  Cranmer  ! 

He  is  represented  as  standing  against  a  pillar,  pale  as 
the  stone  against  which  he  leaned.  if  It  is  doleful,'  says 
a  popish,  but  impartial,  spectator,  "  to  describe  his  beha- 
viour during  the  sermon,  part  of  which  was  addressed  to 
him  ;  his  sorrowful  countenance  ;  his  heavy  cheer,  his 
face  bedewed  with  tears  ;   sometimes   lifting  up  his  eyes 


193  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

to  heaven  in  hope  ;  sometimes  casting  them  down  to  the 
earth  for  shame.  To  be  brief,  he  was  an  image  of  sorrow. 
The  dolour  of  his  heart  burst  out  continually  from  his 
eyes  in  gushes  of  tears  :  yet  he  retained  ever  a  quiet  and 
grave  behaviour,  which  increased  pity  in  men's  hearts, 
who  unfeignedly  loved  him,  hoping  that  it  had  been  hit 
repentance  for  his  transgressions."  And  so  it  was  ; 
though  not  for  what  many  considered  his  transgressions ; 
but  it  was  the  deep  contrition  of  a  converted  heart,  and 
of  a  subdued  and  penitent  soul,  prepared  by  the  depth  of 
human  degredation  and  humility,  to  rise  on  the  wings  of 
angels,  and  meet  in  another  world  its  beloved  and  blessed 
Redeemer. 

The  preacher  having  concluded  his  sermon,  turned 
round  to  the  audience,  and  desired  all  who  where  present 
to  join  with  him  in  silent  prayers  for  the  unhappy  man  be- 
fore them.  A  solemn  stilness  ensued;  every  eye  and 
heart  were  instantly  lifted  up  to  heaven.  Some  minutes 
having  been  passed  in  this  affecting  manner,  the  degraded 
primate,  who  had  also  fallen  on  his  knees,  arose  in  all  the 
dignity  of  sorrow,  accompanied  by  conscious  penitence  and 
Christian  reliance,  and  thus  addressed  his  audience.  "  I 
had  myself  intended  to  desire  your  prayers.  My  desires 
have  been  anticipated,  and  I  return  you  all  that  a  dying 
man  can  give,  my  sincerest  thanks.  To  your  prayers  for 
me,  let  me,  add  my  own  !  Good  Christian  people  \"  con- 
tinued he,  "  my  dearly  beloved  brethren  and  sisters  iii 
Christ,  I  beseech  you  most  heartily,  to  pray  for  me  to  Al- 
mighty God,  that  he  will  forgive  me  all  my  sins  and  offences, 
Avhich  are  many  without  number,  and  great  beyond  meas- 
ure. But  one  thing  grieveth  my  conscience  more  than  all 
the  rest  j  whereof,  God  willing,  I  mean  to  speak  hereaf- 
ter. But,  how  great  and  how  many  soever  my  sins  be, 
1  beseech  yon  to  pray  God,  of  his  mercy,  to  pardon  and 
forgive  them  all."  He  then  knelt  down  and  offered  up  a 
prayer  as  full  of  pathos  as  of  eloquence ;  then  he  took  a 
paper  from  his  bosom,  and  read  it  aloud,  which  was  to 
the  following  effect. 

"  It  is  now,  my  brethren,  no  time  to  dissemble — I  stand 
upon  the  verge  of  life — a  very  vast  eternity  before  me — 
what  my  fears  are,  or  what  my  hopes,  it  matters  not  here 


RELIGION  THE  BASIS  OF  TRUTH.         107 

to  unfold.  For  one  action  of  my  life,  at  least,  I  am  account- 
able to  the  world.  My  late  shameful  subscription  to 
opinions,  which  are  loholly  opposite  to  my  real  senti- 
ments. Before  this  congregation  I  solemnly  declare,  that 
the  fear  of  death  alone  induced  me  to  this  ignominious  ac- 
tion— that  it  hath  cost  me  many  bitter  tears — that,  in  my 
heart,  I  totally  reject  the  Pope,  and  doctrines  of  the 
church  of  Rome,  and  that" — 

As  he  was  continuing  his  speech,  the  whole  assembly 
was  in  an  uproar.  "  Stop  the  audacious  heretic,"  cried 
Lord  Williams  of  Thame.  On  which  several  priests  and 
friars,  rushing  from  different  parts  of  the  church,  seized, 
or  pulled  him  from  his  seat,  dragged  him  into  the  street, 
and,  v\ith  indecent  precipitation,  hurried  him  to  the  stake 
which  was  already  prepared. 

As  he  stood  with  all  the  horrid  apparatus  of  death 
around  him,  amidst  taunts,  revilings,  and  execrations,  he 
alone  maintained  a  dispassionate  behaviour.  Having  dis- 
charged his  conscience,  he  seemed  to,  feel,  even  in  his  aw- 
ful circumstances,  an  inward  satisfaction,  to  which  he  had 
long  been  a  stranger.  His  countenance  was  not  fixed,  as 
befure,  in  sorrow  on  the  ground  ;  but  he  looked  round 
him  with  eyes  full  of  sweetness  and  benignity,  as  if  at 
peace  with  all  the  world." 

Who  can  contemplate  the  conduct  of  Cranmer,  in  the 
affecting  scene  that  followed,  without  feeling  a  deep  con- 
viction of  the  intensity  of  his  penitence  for  the  degrading 
lie,  of  which  he  had  been  guilty  !  and  who  can  fail  to  think 
that  Cranmer,  in  his  proudest  days,  when  the  favourite, 
the  friend,  the  counsellor  of  a  king,  and  bearing  the  high- 
est ecclesiastical  rank  in  the  country,  was  far  inferior  iu 
real  dignity  and  real  consequence  to  Cranmer,  when, 
prostrate  in  soul  before  his  offended,  yet  pardoning  God, 
but  erect  and  fearless  before  his  vindictive  enemies,  he 
thrust  his  hand,  with  which  he  had  signed  the  lying  scroll 
of  his  recantations,  into  the  fast-rising  ilames,  crying  out 
as  he  did  so,  *  this  hand  hath  offended  I  this  hand  hath 
offended  !" 

It  is  soothing  to  reflect,  that  his  sufferings  were  quickly 
over  ;  for,  as  die  fire  rose  fiercely  round  him,  he  vu  UV 


200  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

volved  in  a  thick  smoke,  and  it  was  supposed  that  he  died 
very  soon. 

'*  Surely,"  says  the  writer  before  quoted,  "  his  death 
grieved  every  one  :  his  friends  sorrowed  for  love;  his  ene- 
mies for  pity  ;  nnd  stranger?  through  humanity." 

To  as  of  these  latter  days,  his  crime  and  his  peni- 
tence afford  an  awful  warning,  and  an  instructive,  ex- 
ample. 

The  former  proves  how  vain  are  talents,  learning,  and 
even  exalted  virtues,  to  preserve  us  in  the  path  of  rectitude, 
unless  we  are  watchful  unto  prayer,  and  unless,  wisely  dis- 
trustful of  our  own  strength,  we  wholly  and  confidently  lean 
upon  '*  that  rock,  which  is  highe-  than  we  are."  And  the 
manner  in  which  he  was  enabled  to  declare  his  penitence 
nnd  contrition  for  his  falsehood  and  apostacy,  and  to  bear 
the  tortures  which  attended  on  his  dying  hours,  is  a  sooth- 
ing and  comforting  evidence,  that  sinners,  who  prostrate 
themselves  with  contrite  hearts  before  the  throne  of  their 
God,  and  their  Redeemer,  "  he  will  in  no  wise  cast  out,"' 
but  will  know  his  Almighty  arm  to  be  round  about  them, 
*'  till  death  is  swallowed  up  in  victory." 

It  is  with  a  degree  of  fearfulness  and  awe,  that  I  take  my 
fourth  example  from  one  who,  relying  too  much  on  his  own 
human  strength,  in  his  hour  of  human  trial,  was  permitted 
to  fall  into  the  commission  of  human  frailty,  and  to  utter 
the  most  decided  and  ungrateful  of  falsehoods  !  since  he 
that  thus  erred  was  no  less  a  person  than  the  apostle  Peter 
himself,  who,  by  a  thrice-told  lie,  denied  his  Lord  and  Mas- 
ter ;  but  who,  hy  his  bitter  tearful  repentance,  and  by  his 
subsequent  faithfulness  unto  death,  redeemed,  in  the  eyes 
both  of  his  Saviour  and  of  men,  his  short-lived  frailty,  and 
proved  himself  worthy  of  that  marked  confidence  in  his  ac- 
tive zeal,  which  was  manifested  by  our  great  Redeemer,  in 
his  parting  words. 

The  character  of  Peter  affords  us  a  warning,  as  well  aa 
an  example,  while  the  affectionate  reproofs  of  the  Sa- 
viour, together  with  the  tender  encouragement,  and  gen- 
erous praise,  which  he  bestowed  upon  him,  prove  to  us  in 
a  manner  the  most  clteering  and  indisputable,  how  merci- 
ful are  the  dealings  of  the  Almighty  with  his  sinful  crea- 
•wrcs  j  how  ready  be  is  to  overlook  our  offences,  and  to 


RELIGION  THE   BASIS  OF  TRUTH.       2i>l 

dwell  with  complacency  on  our  virtues  ;  and  that  "  ht 
•villeth  not  the  death  of  a  sinner,  but  h;ul  rather  that  ho 
should  turn  from  his  wickedness  and  live." 

Self-confidence,  and  self-righte*usness,  proceeding  per- 
naps  from  his  belief  in  the  superior  depth  and  strength  of 
his  faith  in  Christ,  seem  to  have  been  the  besetting  sins 
of  Peter;  and  that  his  faith  was  lively  and  sincere,  is  suf- 
ficiently evidenced  by  his  unhesitating"  reply  to  the  ques- 
tions of  his  Lord  :  "  Thou  art  the  Christ,  tlie  Son  of  the 
living  Cod  !"  A  reply  so  satifactory  to  the  great  Being 
whom  he  addressed,  that  he  answered  him,  saying,  "Bles- 
sed, art  thou,  Simon  Barjona ;  for  flesh  and  blood  have 
not  revealed  it  unto  thee,  but  my  Father  which  is  in 
Heaven  :  and  I  say  unto  thee,  that  thou  art  Peter;  and 
upon  this  rock  will  I  build  my  church,  and  the  gates  of  hell 
shall  ir.>t  prevail  against  it." 

It  seems  as  if  Peter  became,  from  his  assurance,  so 
cofindent  in  his  own  strength,  that  he  neglected  to  follow 
his  master's  injunction,  "  Watch  and  pray,  lest  ye  enter 
into  temptation  ;  '  and  therefore  became  an  easy  victim 
to  the  first  temptation  which  beset  him  :  for  soon  after, 
with  surprising  confidence  in  his  own  wisdom,  we  find  him 
rebuking  bis  Lord,  and  asserting,  the  things  which  he 
prophecied  concerning  himself  should  not  happen  unto  him. 
On  which  occasion,  the  Saviour  says,  addressing  the  ad- 
versay  of  Peter's  soul,  then  powerful  within  him,  "  Cet 
the  behind  title  •"•atan  !  thou  art  an  offence  to  roe  !"  His 
want  of  implicit  faith  on  this  occasion  was  the  more  re- 
markable, because  he  had  just  before  uttered  that  strong 
avowal  of  his  confidence  in  Christ,  to  which  I  have  already 
alluded. 

In  an  early  part  of  the  history  of  the  Gospel  we  read 
that.  Peter,  "beholding  the  miraculous  draught  of  fishes, 
fell  on  his  knees,  and  exclaimed,  in  the  fulness  of  surprise 
and  admiration,  and  in  the  depth  of  conscious  sinfulness 
and  humility,  **  Depart  from  me,  for  I  am  a  sinful  man, 
O  Lord  !" 

On  a  subsequent  occasion,  ever  eager  as  he  was  to  givo 
assurances  of  what  he  believed  to  be  his  undoubting  faith> 
re  find  him  saying  to  the  Saviour,when  he  had  removed  the 
<error  of  bis  disciples  at  seeing  him  walking  on  the  sea,  by 


202  'illustrations  of  lying. 

those  cheering  words,  "  It  is  I,  be  not  afraid  !" — "  Lord! 
if  it  be  thou,  bid  me  come  to  thee  on  the  water !" 
— And  he  walked  on  the  water  to  come  to  Jesus ;  but, 
when  he  saw  the  wind  boisterous,  he  was  again  afraid, 
and  beginning  to  sink,  he  cried,  saying,'  "Lord,  save 
me !"  Immediately,  Jesus  stretched  forth  his  hand  and 
caught  him  3aying  unto  him,  "  O  thou  of  little  faith, 
wherefore  didst  thou  doubt?"  The  first  of  these  facts 
shows  the  great  sensibility  of  his  nature,  and  his  exem- 
plary aptitude  to  acknowledge  and  admire  every  proof 
of  the  power  and  goodness  of  his  Redeemer  :  and  the  second 
is  a  further  corroborating  instance  of  his  eager  confidence  in 
his  own  courage  and  belief,  followed  by  its  accustomed  fal- 
ling off  in  the  hour  of  trial. 

•  His  unsuhmitted  and  self  confident  spirit  shows  itself 
again  in  his  declaration,  that  Christ  should  not  wash  his 
feet;  as  if  he  still  set  his  human  wisdom  against  that  of 
the  Redeemer,  till,  subdued  by  the  Saviour's  reply,  he 
exclaims,  "  not  my  feet  only  but  also  my  hands,  and  my 
head." 

The  next  instance  of  the  mixed  character  of  Peter,  and 
of  the  solicitude  which  it  excited  in  our  Saviour,is  exhibited 
by  the  following  address  to  him,  "  And  the  Lord  said  Si- 
mon, Simon,  behold  !  Satan  hath  desired  to  have  thee,  that 
he  may  sift  thee  as  wheat;  but  I  have  prayed  for  thee, 
(added  the  gracious  Jesus,)  that  thy  faith  fail  not ;  and 
when  thou  art  converted,  strengthen  thy  brethren."  Pe- 
ter replied,  in  the  fulness  of  self-confidence,  "  Lord,  I  am 
raady  to  go  with  thee  into  prison,  and  unto  death  !"  And 
«e  said,  "  I  leH  thee,  Peter,  that  before  the  cock  crows, 
ihou  shait  deny  me  thrice."  It  does  not  appear  what  vis- 
ible effect  this  humiliating  prophecy  had  on  him  to  whom 
it  was  addressed,  though  Matthew  says  that  he  replied, 
"  though  I  should  die  with  thee,  still  I  will  not  deny  thee  ; 
but  it  is  probable  that,  by  drawing  his  sword  openly  in  his 
defence,  when  they  came  out  "  with  swords  and  with 
Btaves  to  take  him,"  he  hoped  to  convince  his  Lord  of  his 
fidelity.  And  this  action  was  little  better  than  one  of  mere 
physical  courage,  the  result  of  sudden  excitement  at  the 
time;  and  was  consistent  with  that  want  of  moral  courage, 
that  most  difficult  courage  of  all,  which  led  him,  wbentha 


RELIGION  THE  BASIS  OF  TRUTH.         203 

feelings  of  the  moment  had  subsided,  to  deny  his  master, 
and  to  utter  the  degrading  lie  of  fear.  After  he  had  thus 
sinned,  the  Lord  turned  and  looked  upon  Peter  ;  and 
Peter  remembered  the  words  of  the  Lord,  how  he  had 
said  unto  him,  "  Before  the  cock  crow,  thou  shalt  de- 
ny me  thrice.  And  Peter  went  out,  and  wept  bit- 
terly." 

It  seems  as  if  that  self-confidence,  that  blind  trusting  in 
one's  own  strength,  that  tendency  which  we  all  have  to 
believe,  like  Hazael,  that  we  can  never  fall  into  certain 
sins,  and  yield  to  certain  temptations,  was  conquered,  for 
a  while,  in  the  humbled,  self-judged,  and  penitent  apostle. 
Perhaps  the  look  of  mild  reproach  which  the  Saviour  gave 
him  was  long  present  to  his  view,  and  that  in  moments  of 
subsequent  danger  to  his  truth,  those  eyes  seemed  again  to 
admonish  him,  and  those  holy  lips  to  utter  the  salutary  and 
saving  precept,  "  watch  and  pray,  lest  ye  enter  into  temp- 
tation." 

Nevertheless,  rendered  too  confident,  probably,  in  his 
own  unassisted  strength,  we  find  him  sinning  once  more  in 
the  same  way  ;  namely,  from  fear  of  man  ;  for,  being 
convinced  that  the  Mosaic  law  was  no  longer  binding  on 
the  conscience,  he  ate  and  drank  freely  at  Antioch  with 
the  Gentiles  ;  but  when  certain  Jewish  converts  were  sent 
to  him  from  the  apostle  James,  he  separated  from  the  Gen- 
tiles, lest  he  should  incur  the  censure  of  the  Jews  ;  being 
thus  guilty  of  a  sort  of  practical  lie,  and  setting  those 
Jews,  as  it  proved,  a  most  pernicious  example  of  dissim- 
ulation ;  for  which  disingenuous  conduct,  the  apostle 
Paul  publicly  and  justly  reproved  him  before  the  whole 
Church.  But,  as  there  is  no  record  of  any  reply  given  by 
Peter,  it  is  probable  that  he  bore  the  rebuke  meekly, 
humbled,  no  doubt,  in  spirit,  before  the  great  Being  whom 
he  had  again  offended  ;  and  not  only  does  it  seem  likely 
that  he  met  this  public  humiliation  with  silent  and  Chris- 
tian forbearance,  but,  in  his  last  Epistle,  he  speaks  of 
Paul,  "  as  his  beloved  brother,"  generously  bearing  hia 
powerful  testimony  to  the  wisdom  contained  in  his  Epis- 
tles, and  warning  the  hearers  of  Paul  against  rejecting 
aught  in  them  which  from  want  of  learning,  they  muy  not 
•mderstand,  and  "  therefore  wrest  them,  as  the  unlearned 


£04  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF    LYING. 

and  unstable  do  also  the  other  Scriptures,  to  their  own . 
destruction." 

The  closing  scene  of  this  most  interesting  apostle's  life, 
we  have  had  no  means  of  contemplating,  though  the  Sa- 
viour's last  affecting  and  pathetic  address  to  him,  in 
which  he  prophecies  that  he  will  die  a  martyr  in  his 
cause,  makes  one  particularly  desirous  to  procure  details 
of  it. 

"  So  when  they  had  dined,  Jesus  saith  to  Simon  Peter, 
1  Simon  son  of  Jonas,  lovest  thou  me  more  than  these  V 
He  saith  unto  him,  '  Yea,  Lord,  thou  knowest  that  I  love 
thee.'  He  saith  unto  him,  '  Feed  my  lambs  !'  He  saith 
unto  him  again  the  second  time,  '  Simon,  son  of  Jonas, 
lovest  thou  me  V  He  saith  unto  him,  '  Yea,  Lord  !  thou 
knowest  that  1  love  thee.'  He  saith  unto  him  '  feed  my 
sheep  !'  He  saith  unto  him  the  third  time,  '  Simon,  sou 
of  Jonas,  lovest  thou  me  V  Peter  was  grieved  because 
he  said  unto  him  the  third  time,  Lovest  thou  me  1  and  he 
said  unto  him,  '  Lord,  thou  knowest  that  !  love  thee.' 
Jgsus  saith  unto  him,  'Feed  my  t>heep.  Verily,  verily,  1 
say  unto  thee,  when  thou  wast  young  thou,  girdedst  thyself, 
and  walked.st  whither  thou  wouldest;  but  when  thou  shalt 
be  old,  thou  shall  stretch  forth  thy  hands,  and  another  shall 
gird  thee,  and  carry  thee  whither  thou  wouldest  not.'  This 
spake  he,  signifying  by  what  death  he  should  glorify  God; 
and  when  he  had  spoken  this  he  saith  unto  hiin,  follow 
me  !" 

"  The  case  of  Peter,"  says  the  pious  and  learned  Scott, 
in  his  Notes  to  the  Gospel  of  John, "  required  a  more  par- 
ticular address  than  that  of  the  other  apostles,  in  or- 
der that  both  he  and  others  might  derive  the  greater 
benefit  from  his  fall  and  his  recovery.  Our  Lord, 
therefore,  asked  him  by  his  original  name,  as  if  he  had  for- 
feited that  of  peter  by  his  instability,  whether  he  loved 
him  more  than  these.  The  latter  clause  might  be  inter- 
preted of  his  employment  and  gains  as  a  fisherman,  and 
be  considered  as  a  demand  whether  he  loved  Jesus  above 
his  secular  interests ;  but  Peter's  answer  determines  us  to 
another  interpretation.  He  had,  before  his  fall,  in  effect, 
aaid  that  he  loved  his  Lord  more  than  the  other  disciple* 
did  j    for  U©  had  boasted  that  though  all  men  should  for* 


RELIGION  THE  BASIS  OF  TRUTH.      205 

■ake  him,  yet  would  not  he.  Jesus  now  asked  him  wheth- 
er he  would  stand  this,  and  aver  that  he  loved  him  more 
than  others  did.  To  this  he  answered  modestly  by  saying, 
"tthou  knowest  that  I  love  thee,"  without  professing  to 
ove  him  more  than  others.  Our  Lord,  therefore,  renew- 
ed his  appointment  to  the  ministerial  and  apostolical  of- 
fice ;  at  the  same  time  commanding  him  to  feed  his  lambs, 
or  his  little  lambs,  even  the  least  of  them  ;  for  the  word 
is  diminutive  :  this  intimated  to  him  that  his  late  experi- 
ence of  his  own  weakness  ought  to  render  him  peculiarly 
condescending,  complaisant,  tender  and  attentive  to  the 
meanest  anil  feeblest  believers.  As  Peter  had  thrice  de- 
nied Christ,  so  he  was  pleased  to  repeat  the  same  question 
a  third  time  :  this  grieved  Peter  as  it  reminded  him  that 
he  had  given  sufficient  cause  for  being  thus  repeatedly 
questioned  concerning  the  sincerity  of  his  love  to  his  Lord. 
Conscious  however,  of  his  integrity,  he  more  solemnly  ap- 
pealed to  Christ,  as  knowing  all  things  even  the  secrets  o. 
his  heart,  that  he  knew  he  loved  him  with  cordial  affec- 
tion, notwithstanding  the  inconsistency  of  his  late  behav- 
iour. Our  Lord  thus  tacitly  allowed  the  truth  of  his  pro- 
fession, and  renewed  ins  charge  to  him  to  feed  his  sheep." 

"  Peter,"  continues  the  commentator,  "  had  earnestly 
professed  his  readiness  to  die  with  Christ,  yet  had  shame- 
fully failed  when  put  to  trial  ;  but  our  Lord  next  assured 
him- that  he  would  at  length  be  called  on  to  perform  that 
engagement,  and  signified  the  death  by  which  he  would, 
as  a  martyr  for  his  truth,  glorify  God."  No  doubt 
that  this  information,  however  awful,  was  grate 
fully  received  by  the  devoted,  ardent,  though,  at  times, 
the  unstable,  follower  of  his  beloved  Master;  as  it  proved 
the  Saviour's  confidence  in  him,  notwithstanding  all  his 
errors. 

There  was,  indeed,  an  energy  of  character  in  Peter, 
which  fitted  him  to  be  an  apostle  and  a  martyr.  He  was 
the  questioning,  the  observing,  the  conversing,  disciple 
The  others  were  probably  withheld  by  timidity  from  talk- 
ing with  their  Lord,  and  putting  frequent  questions  to 
him  ;  but  Peter  was  the  willing  spokesman  on  all  occa- 
sions ;  and  to  him  we  owe  that  impressive  lesson  afforded 
us  by  the  Saviour's  reply,  when  asked  by  him  how  often 


206  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

he  was  to  forgive  an  offending  brother,  "  I  Bay  not 
unto  thee  until  seven  times,  but  unto  seventy  times 
seven." 

But,  whether  we  contemplate  Peter  as  an  example,  or 
as  a  warning,  in  the  early  part  of  his  religious  career,  it  it 
cheering  and  instructive,  indeed,  to  acquaint  ourselves  with 
him  in  his  writings,  when  he  approached  the  painful  and 
awful  close  of  it.  When,  having  been  enabled  to  fight,  a  good 
fight  in  fulfilment  of  his  blessed  Lord's  prayer,  that  "  his 
faith  might  not  fail;"  and  having  been  "converted  himself," 
and  having  strengthened  his  brethren,  he  addressed  his  last 
awfully  impressive  Epistle  to  his  Christian  brethren,  be- 
fore he  himself  was  summoned  to  that  awful  trial,  after 
which  he  was  to  receive  the  end  of  "his  faith,"  even  "the 
salvation  of  his  soul  !''  Who  can  read,  without  trembling 
awe,  his  eloquent  description  of  the  day  of  judgment  ; 
"  that  day,"  which,  as  he  says,  "  will  come  like  a  thief 
in  the  nigl\t,  in  the  which  the  heavens  shall  pass  away  with 
a  great  noise,  and  the  elements  shall  melt  with  fervent 
heat  ;  and  the  works  that  arc  therein  shall  be  burned  up," 
while  he  adds  this  impressive  lesson,  "  seeing  then  that  all 
these  things  shall  be  dissolved,  what  manner  of  person 
ought  ye  to  be  in  all  holy  conversation  and  godliness  V 
And  who  can  contemplate,  without  affectionate  admiration, 
the  undoubting,  but  unf earing,  certainty  with  which  he 
speaks  of  his  approaching  death,  as  foretold  by  our  Lord  j 
"  knowing,"  said  he,  "  that  shortly  I  must  put  off  this 
my  tabernacle,  even  as  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  has  show- 
ed us  1" 

Soon  after  he  had  thus  written,  it  is  probable  that  he 
repaired  to  the  expected  scene  of  his  suffering,  and  met 
his  doom — met  it,  undoubtedly,  as  became  one  taught  by 
experience,  to  know  his  own  recurring  weakness,  admon- 
ished often  by  the  remembrance  of  that  eye  which  had 
once  beamed  in  mild  reproof  upon  him  ;  but  which,  I  doubt 
not,  he  beheld  in  the  hour  of  his  last  trial  and  dying  ago- 
nies, fixed  upon  him  with  tender  encouragement  and  ap- 
proving love  ;  while,  in  his  closing  ear,  seemed  once  again 
to  sound  the  welcome  promised  to  the  devoted  follower  of 
the  cross,  "  well  done,  good  and  faithful  servant,  enter  thoQ 
into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord." 


RELIGION  THE  BASIS  OF  TRUTH.       207 

We,  of  these  latter  days,  can  see  the  founder  of  our  religion 
only  in  the  record  of  his  word,  and  hear  only  him  in  his  ever- 
enduring  precepts  ;  hut,  though  we  hear  him  not  externally 
with  our  ears,  he  still  speaks  in  the  heart  of  us  all,  if  we 
will  hut  listen  to  his  purifying  voice  ;  and  though  the  look 
of  his  reproachful  eve  can  be  beheld  by  us  only  with  our 
mental  vision,  still  that  eye  is  continually  over  us;  and 
when,  like  the  apostle,  we  are  tempted  to  feel  too  great 
security  in  our  own  strength,  and  to  neglect  to  implore  the 
assistance  which  cometh  from  above,  let  us  recal  the 
look  which  Jesus  gave  to  the  offending  Peter,  and  remem- 
ber that  the  same  eye,  although  unseen,  is  watching  and 
regarding  us  still. 

Oh  !  could  we  ever  lie  even  upon  what  are  called  tri- 
fling occasions,  if  we  once  believed  the  certain,  however 
disregarded,  truth,  that  the  Lord  takes  cognizance  of 
every  species  of  falsehood,  and  that  the  eye,  which  looked 
the  apostle  into  shame  and  agonizing  contrition,  beholds 
our  lying  lips  with  the  same  indignation  with  which  it  re- 
proved him,  reminding  us  that  "  all  liars  shall  have  their 
part  in  the  Jake  that  burneth  with  fire  and  brimstone,"  and 
that  without  the  city  of  life  is  "  whosoever  loveth  and 
maketh  a  lie." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  SAME  SUBJECT  CONTINUE!*. 

I  shall  not  give  many  individual  instances  of  those 
whom  even  the  fear  of  death  has  not  been  able  to  terrify 
into  falsehood,  because  they  were  supported  in  their  in- 
tegrity by  the  fear  of  God  ;  but  such  facts  are  on  record. 
The  history  of  the  primitive  Christians  contains  many  ex- 
amples both  of  men  and  women  whom  neither  threats  nor 
bribes  could  induce  for  a  moment  to  withhold  or  falsify 
the  truth,  or  to  conceal  their   newly-embraced  opinions, 


208  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING, 

though  certain  that  torture  and  death  would  be  the  conse- 
quence ;  fearless  and  determined  beings,  who,  though 
their  rulers,  averse  to  punish  them,  would  gladly 
have  allowed  their  change  to  pass  unnoticed,  per- 
sisted, like  the  prophet  Daniel,  openly  to  display  the  faith 
that  was  in  them,  exclaiming  at  every  interrogatory,  and 
in  the  midst  of  tortures  and  of  death,  "  we  are  Chris- 
tians ;  we  are  Christians  !"  Some  martyrs  of  more  mod- 
ern days,  Catholics,  as  well  as  Protestants,  have  borne  the 
same  unshaken  testimony  to  what  they  believed  to  be  re- 
ligious truth ;  but  Larimer,  more  especially,  was  so  fa- 
mous amongst  the  latter,  not  only  for  the  pureness  of  his 
life,  but  for  the  sincerity  and  goodness  of  his  evangelical 
doctrine  ;  (which,  since  tfle  beginning  oi  his  preaching, 
had,  in  all  points  been  conformable  to  the  teaching  of 
Christ  and  of  his  apostles,)  that  the  very  adversaries  of 
God's  truth,  with  all  their  menacing  words  and  cruel  im- 
prisonment, could  not  withdraw  him  from  it.  But,  what- 
soever he  had  once  preached,  he  valiantly  defended  tho 
same  before  the  world,  without  fear  of  any  mortal 
creature,  although  of  never  so  great  power  and  high  au- 
thority; wishing  and  minding  rather  to  suffer  not  oply 
loss  of  worldly  possessions,  but  of  life,  than  that  the  glory 
of  God,  and  the  truth  of  Christ's  Gospel  should  in  any  point 
be  obscured  or  defaced  through  him."  Thus  this  eminent 
person  exhibited  a  striking  contrast  to  that  fear  of  man, 
which  is  the  root  of  all  lying,  and  all  dissimulation  ;  that 
mean,  grovelling,  and  pernicious  fear,  which  every  day  \3 
leading  us  either  to  disguise  or  withhold  our  real  opinion  ; 
if  not,  to  be  absolutely  guilty  of  uttering  falsehood.,  and 
which  induces  us  but  too  often,  to  remain  silent,  and  in- 
effective, even  when  the  oppressed  and  the  insulted  requiie 
as  to  sneak  in  their  defence,  and  when  the  cause  of  truth, 
and  of  righteousness,  is  injured  by  our  silence.  The  early 
Friends  were  exemplary  instances  of  the  power  of  faith 
to  lift  the  Christian  above  all  fear  of  man  ;  and  not  only 
George  Fox  himself,  but  many  of  his  humblest  followers, 
were  known  to  be  persons  "  who  would  rather  have  died 
than  spoken  a  lie." 

There  was  one  female  Friend  amongst  others,  of  the 
name  of  Mary  Dyar,  who,  after  undergoing  some  persecu- 


RELIGION   THE  BASIS  Oi    TRUTH.        209 

tion  for  the  sake  of  her  religions  tenets  at  Boston,  in  Ame- 
rica, was  led  to  the  gallows  between  two  young  men,  con- 
demned, like  herself,  to  suffer  for  conscience'  sake  ;  but. 
having  seen  them  executed,  she  was  reprieved,  carried 
back  to  prison,  and  then,  being  discharged,  was  permitted 
to  go  to  another  part  of  the  country ;  but  apprehending  it 
to  be  her  duty  to  return  to  "  the  bloody  town  of  Boston," 
she  was  summoned  before  the  general  court.  On  her  ap- 
pearance there,  the  governor,  John  Endicott,  said,  "  Are 
you  the  same  Mary  Dyar  that  was  here  before  T'  And  it 
seems  he  was  preparing  an  evasion  for  her  :  there 
having  been  another  of  that  name  returned  from  Old  Eng- 
land. But  she  was  so  far  from  disguising  the  truth  that 
she  answered  undauntedly,  "  I  am  the  same  Mary 
Dyar  that  was  here  last  general  court."      The  conse 

3uence  was  immediate  imprisonment ;  and,  soon  after 
eath. 
But  the  following  narrative,  which,  like  the  preced- 
ing one,  is  recorded  in  Sewell's  History  of  the  people 
called  Quakers,  bears  so  directly  on  the  point  in  ques- 
tion, that  I  am  tempted  to  give  it  to  my  readers  in  all  its 
details. 

"  About  the  fore  part  of  this  year,  if  I  mistake  not, 
there  happened  a  case  at  Edmond  's-Bury,  which  I  can- 
not well  pass  by  in  silence  ;  viz.  a  certain  young  woman 
was  committed  to  prison  for  child-murder.  Whilst  she 
was  in  jail,  it  is  said,  William  Bennet,  a  prisoner  for  con- 
science' sake,  came  to  her,  and  in  discourse  asked  her 
whether,  during  the  course  of  her  life,  she  had  not  many 
times  trasgressed  against  her  conscience  1  and  whether 
she  had  not  often  thereupon  felt  secret  checks  and  inward 
reproofs,  and  been  troubled  in  her  mind  because  of  the  evil 
committed  ;  and  this  he  did  in  such  a  convincing  way,  that 
she  not  only  assented  to  what  he  laid  before  her,  but  his  dis- 
course so  reached  her  heart,  that  she  came  clearly  to  see, 
that  if  she  had  not  been  so  stubborn  and  disobedient  to  those 
inward  reproofs,  in  all  probability  she  would  not  have 
come  to  such  a  miserable  fall  as  she  now  had  ;  for  man, 
not  desiring  the  knowledge  of  God's  ways,  and  departing 
from  him,  is  left  kelpless,  and  cannot  keep  himself  from 
•vilj  though  it  may  be  such  as  formerly  he  would  have  ab- 


210  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING- 

horred  in  the  highest  degree,  and  have  said  with  Hazael, 
*'  what !  is  thy  servant  a  dog,  that  he  should  do  this  great 
thing  V    W.  Bennet  thus  opening  matters  to  her,  did,  by 
his  wholesome  admonition,  so   work  upon  her  mind,  that 
Bhe   who   never   had   conversed   with    the  Quakers  and 
was  altogether  ignorant  of  their  doctrine,  now  came  to 
apprehend  that  it  was  the  grace  of  God  that  brings  salva- 
tion, which  she  so  often  had  withstood,  and  that  thisgrace 
had  not  yet  quite  forsaken  her,  but  now  make  her  sensible 
of  the  greatness  of  her  transgression.     This  consideration 
wrought  so  powerfully,  that,  from  a  most  grievous  sinner, 
She  became  a  true  penitent ;  and  with  hearty  sorrow  she 
cried  unto  the,  Lord,  "  that  it  might  please  him  not  to 
hide  his  countenance."     And  continuing  in  this  state  of 
humiliation  and  sincere  repentance,  and   persevering  in 
supplication,  she  felt,  in  time,  ease ;  and,  giving  heed  to 
the    exhortations    of  the  said   Bennet,  she  obtained,   at 
length,  to  a  sure  hope  of  forgiveness  by  the  precious  blood 
of  the  immaculate  Lamb,  who  died  for   the   sins  of  the 
world.     Of  this  she  gave  manifest  proofs  at  her  trial  be- 
fore Judge  Matthew  Hale,  who,  having  heard  how  peni- 
tent she  was,  would  fain  have  spared  her  ;  she  being  ask- 
ed, according  to  the  form,  "  guilty  or  not  guilty  ?"  read- 
ily answered,  "  guilty.''     This  astonished  the  judge,  and 
therefore  he  told  her  that  she  seemed  not  dulj  to  consider 
what  she  said,  since  it  could  not  well  be  believed  that 
such  a  one  as  she,   who,  it  may  be   inconsiderately,   had 
roughly  handled  her  child,  should  have   killed  it  "  wil- 
fully   and   designedly."        Here     the    judge     opened    a 
back  door  for  her  to  avoid  the  punishment  of  death.     But 
now  the  fear  of  God  had  got  so  much  room  in    her  heart, 
that  no  tampering  would  do ;  no  fig-leaves  could  serve  her 
for  a  cover  ;  for  she  knew  now  that  this  would  have  been 
adding  sin  to  sin,  and  to  cover  herself  with  a  covering,  but 
not  of  God's  spirit ;  and  therefore  she  plainly  signified  to 
the  court  that  indeed  she  had  committed  the  mischievous 
act  intendedly,  thereby  to  hide  her  shame ;  and  that  hav- 
ing sinned  thus  grievously,  and  being  affected  now  with 
true  repentance,  she  could  by    no  means  excuse   herself, 
but  was  willing  to   undergo   the   punishment  the  law  re- 
ijmred }  and,  therefore^  she  eould  but  acknowledge  ber« 


RELIGION  THE  BASIS  OF  TRUTH  211 

self  guilty,  since  otherwise  how  could  she  expect  forgive* 
ness  from  the  Lord  V  This  undisguised  and  free  confes- 
sion being  spoken  with  a  serious  countenance,  did  so  af- 
fect the  judge  that,  tears  trickling  down  his  cheeks,  he  sor- 
rowfully said,  "  Woman  !  such  a  case  as  this  1  never  met 
with  before.  Perhaps  you,  who  are  but  young,  and 
speak  so  piously,  as  being  struck  to  the  heart  with  repent- 
ance, might  yet  do  much  good  in  the  world  ;  but  now  you 
force  me  so  that,  ex  officio,  I  must  pronounce  sentence  of 
death  against  you,  since  you  will  admit  of  no  excuse." 
Standing  to  what  she  had  said,  the  judge  pronounced  the 
sentence  of  death  ;  and  when,  afterwards,  she  came  to 
the  place  of  execution,  she  made  a  pathetical  speech  to 
the  people,  exhorting  the  spectators,  especially  those  of 
the  young,  "  to  have  the  fear  of  God  before  their  eyes ; 
to  give  heed  to  his  secret  reproofs  for  evil,  and  so  not  to 
grieve  and  resist  the  good  of  the  Lord,  which  she  herself 
not  having  timely  minded,  it  had  made  her  run  on  in  evil, 
and  thus  proceeding  from  wickedness  to  wickedness,  it 
had  brought  her  to  this  dismal  exit.  But,  since  she  hrm- 
ly  trusted  to  God's  infinite  mercy,  nay,  surely  believed  her 
sins,  though  of  a  bloody  dye,  to  be  washed  off  by  the  pure 
blood  of  Christ,  she  could  contentedly  depart  this  life." 
Thus  she  preached  at  the  gallows  the  doctrine  of  the 
Quakers,  and  gave  heart-melting  proofs  that  her  immor- 
tal soul  was  to  enter  Paradise,  as  well  as  anciently  that  of 
the  thief  on  the  cross." 

The  preceding  chapter  contains  three  instances  of  mar- 
tyrdom, undergone  for  the  sake  of  religious  truth,  and  at- 
tended with  that  animating  publicity  which  is  usual  on  such 
occasions,  particularly  when  the  sufferers  are  persons  of  a 
certain  rank  and  eminence  in  society. 

But,  she  who  died  as  narrated  in  the  story  given  above, 
for  the  cause  of  spontaneous  truth,  and  willingly  re- 
signed her  life,  rather  than  be  guilty  of  a  lie  to  save  it, 
though  that  lie  was  considered  by  the  law  of  the  country 
and  by  the  world  at  large,  to  be  no  lie  at  all ;  this  bright 
example  of  what  a  true  and  lively  faith  can  do  for  us  in  an 
hour  of  strong  temptation,  was  not  only  an  humble,  guilty 
woman,  but  a  nameless  one  also.  She  was  an  obscure, 
friendless,  individual,  whose  name  on   earth  seema  to  be 


219  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

nowhere  recorded  ;  and,  probably,  no  strong  interest  was 
felt  for  her  disastrous  death,  except  by  the  preacher  who 
converted  her,  and  by  the  judge  who  condemned  her. 
This  afflicted  person  was  also,  well  aware  that  the  courage 
with  which  she  met  her  fate,  and  died  rather  than  utter  a 
falsehood,  would  not  be  cheered  and  honoured  by  an  anx- 
ious populace,  or  .by  the  tearful  farewells  of  mourning, 
but  admiring  friends;  she  also  knew  that  her  honest 
avowal  would  brand  her  with  the  odious  guilt  of  murder- 
ing her  child,  and  yet  she  persevered  in  her  adherence  to 
the  truth  !  Therefore,  I  humbly  trust  that,  however  inferi- 
or she  may  appear,  in  the  eyes  of  her  fellow-mortals,  to 
martyrs  of  a  loftier  and  more  important  description,  this 
willing  victim  of  what  she  thought  her  duty,  offered  as 
acceptable  a  sacrifice  as  theirs,  in  the  eyes  of  her  Judge 
and  her  Redeemer. 

No  doubt,  as  I  before  observed,  the  history  of  both 
public  and  private  life  may  afford  many  more  examples  of 
equal  reverence  for  truth,  derived  from  religious  motives  ; 
but  as  the  foregoing  instance  was  more  immediately  be- 
fore me,  I  was  induced  to  give  it  as  an  apt  illustration  *  of 
the  precept  which  I  wish  to  enforce. 

The  few,  and  not  the  many,  are  called  upon  to  earn  the 
honours  of  public  martyrdom,  and  to  shine  like  stars  in 
the  firmament  of  distant  days;  and,  in  like  manner,  few  o. 
us  are  exposed  to  the  danger  of  telling  great  and  wicked 
falsehoods.  But,  as  it  is  more  difficult,  perhaps,  to  bear 
with  fortitude  the  little  daily  trials  of  life,  than  great  ca- 
lamities, because  we  summon  up  all  our  spiritual  and 
moral  strength  to  resist  the  latter,  but  often  do  not  feel  it 
to  be  a  necessary  duty  to  bear  the  former  with  meekness 
and  resignation;  so  is  it  moie  difficult  to  overcome  and 
resist  to  every-day  temptations  lying  and  deceit,  than  to 
falsehoods  of  a  worse  description ;  since,  while  these  little 
lies  often  steal  on  us  unawares,  and  take  us  unprepared,  we 
know  them  to  be  so  trivial,  that  they  escape  notice,and  to  be 
so  tolerated,  that  even,  if  detected,  they  will  not  incur  re* 
proof.  Still,  I  must  again  and  again  repeat  the  burden 
of  my  song,  that  moral  result,  which,  however  weakly  I 
may  have  performed  my  task,  I  have  laboured  incessantly 
through  the  whole  of  my  work,  to  araw,  and  to  illustrate; 


4tELIGI0?s   THE  BASIS  OF  TRUTH.       213 

namely,  that  this  little  and  tolerated  lying,  M  well  ass  great 
and  reprobate  falsehood,  is  wholly  inconsistent  with  the 
character  of  a  serious  Christian,  and  sinfid  in  the  eyes  of 
the  God  of  Truth  ;  that,  in  the  daily  recurring  temptation 
to  deceive,  our  only  security  is  to  lift  up  our  soul,  in  secret 
supplication,  to  be  preserved  faithful  in  the  hour  of  dan- 
ger, and  always  to  remember,  without  any  qualification 
of  the  monitory  words,  that  "  lying  lips  are  an  abomina- 
tion to  the  Lord." 


CONCLUSION. 

I  shall  now  give  a  summary  of  the  didactic  part  of  these 
observations  on  lying,  and  the  principles  which,  with 
much  fearfulness  and  humility,  I  have  ventured  to  lay 
down. 

I  have  staled,  that  if  there  be  no  odier  true  definition  of 
lying  than  an  intention  to  deceive,  withholding  the  truth 
with  such  an  intention,  partakes  as  much  of  the  nature  of 
falsehood  as  direct  lies  ;  and  that,  therefore,  lies  are  of  two 
natures,  active  and  passive  ;  or,  in  other  words,  direct  and 
indirect. 

That  a  passive  lie  is  equally  as  irreconcilable  to 
moral  principles  as  an  active  one. 

That  the  lies  of  vanity  are  of  an  active  and  passive 
nature ;  and  that,  though  we  are  tempted  to  be  guilty  of 
the  former,  our  temptations  to  the  latter  are  stronger 
still. 

That  many,  who  would  shrink  with  moral  disgust  from 
committing  the  latter  species  of  falsehood,  are  apt  tore- 
main  silent  when  their  vanity  is  gratified,  without  any- 
overt  act  of  deceit  on  their  part;  and  are  contented 
to  let  the  flattering  representation  remain  uncontra- 
dicted. 


21  i  ILLUSTRATIONS  01'   LVLNG. 

That  this  disingenuous  passiveness  belongs  to  thai 
common  species  of  falsehood,  withholding  the  truth. 

That  lying  is  a  common  vice,  and  the  habit  of  it  so  in- 
sensibly acquired,  that  many  persons  violate  the  truth, 
without  being  conscious  that  it  is  a  sin  to  do  so,  and  even 
look  on  dexterity  in  w hite  lying,  as  it  is  called,  a  thing 
to  be  proud  of;  but,  that  it  were  well  to  consider  wheth- 
er, if  we  allow  ourselves  liberty  to  lie  on  trivial  occasions, 
we  do  not  weaken  our  power  to  resist  temptation  to  utter 
falsehoods  which  may  be  dangerous,  in  their  results,  to 
our  own  well  being,  and  that  of  others. 

That,  if  we  allow  ourselves  to  violate  the  truth;  that  is 
deceive  for  any  purpose  whatever,  who  can  say  where 
this  self-indulgence  will  submit  to  be  bounded  1 

That  those  who  learn  to  resist  the  daily  temptations  to 
tell  what  are  deemed  trivial  and  innocent  lies,  will  be  bet- 
ter able  to  withstand  allurements  to  serious  and  important 
deviations  from  truth. 

That  the  lies  of  flattery  are,  generally  speaking, 
not  only  unprincipled,  but  offensive. 

Thai  there  are  few  persons  with  whom  it  is  so  difficult 
to  k-^er  up  the  relations  of  peace  and  amity  as  flatterers 
by  system  and  habit. 

That  the  view  taken  by  the  flatterer  of  the  penetration 
of  the  flattered  is  often  erroneous.  That  the  really  in- 
telligent are  usually  aware  to  how  much  praise  and  admi- 
ration they  are  entitled,  be  it  encomium  on  their  personal 
or  mental  qualifications. 

That  the  lie  of  fear  springs  from  the  want  of  mor- 
al courage  ;  and  that,  as  this  defect  is  by  no  means  con- 
fined to  any  class  or  age,  the  result  of  it,  that  fear  of 
man,  which  prompts  to  the  lie  of  fear,  must  be  uni- 
versal. 

That  some  lies,  which  are  thought  to  be  lies  of  be- 
nevolence, are  not  so  in  reality,  but  may  be  resolved 
into  lies  of  fear,  being  occasioned  by  a  dread  of  losing 
favour  by  speaking  the  truth,  and  not  by  real  kindness  of 
heart. 

That  the  daily  lying  and  deceit  tolerated  in  society,  and 
which  are  generally  declared  necessary  to  preserve  good- 
will, and  avoid  offence  to  the   self-love  of  others,  are  the 


RELIGION    THE   BASIS  OT  TRUTH.         £15 

result  of  false,  not  real,  benevolence, — for  that  those,  who 
practise  it  the  most  to  their  acquaintances  when  present 
are  only  too  apt  to  make  detracting  observations  on  them 
when  they  are  out  of  sight. 

That  true  benevolence  would  ensure,  not  destroy,  the 
existence  of  sincerity?  as  those  who  cultivate  the  benevo- 
lent affections  always  see  the  good  qualities  of  their  ac- 
quaintance in  the  strongest  light,  and  throw  their  defects 
into  shade  ;  that,  consequently,  they  need  not  shrink 
from  speaking  truth  on  all  occasions.  That  the  kindness 
which  prompts  to  erroneous  conduct  cannot  long  continue 
to  bear  even  a  remote  connection  with  real  benevolence  ; 
that  unprincipled  benevolence  soon  degenerates  intoma- 
levolence. 

That,  ifthose  who  possess  good  sense  would  use  it  as 
zealously  to  remove  obstacles  in  the  way  of  spontaneous 
truth,  as  they  do  to  justify  themselves  in  the  practice  of 
falsehood,  the  difficulty  of  always  speaking  the  truth 
would  in  time  vanish. 

That  the  lie  of  convenience — namely,  the  order 
to  servants  to  say,  "  not  at  home,"  that  is,  teaching  them 
to  lie  for  our  convenience,  is,  at  the  same  time,  teach- 
ing them  to  lie  fur  their  own,  whenever  the  temptation 
offers. 

That  those  masters  and  mistresses  who  show  their  do- 
mesticks,  that  they  do  not  themselves  value  truth,  and 
thus  render  the  consciences  of  the  latter  callous  to  its  re- 
quirings,  forfeit  their  right,  and  lose  their  chance  of  having 
servants  worthy  of  confidence,  degrade  their  own  charac- 
ters also  in  their  opinions,  and  incur  an  awful  guilt 
by  endangering  their  servants'  well-being  here  and  here- 
after. 

That  husbands  who  employ  their  wives,  and  wives  their 
husbands,  and  that  parents  who  employ  their  children  to 
utter  for  them  the  lies  of  convenience,  have  no  right  to  be 
angry,  or  surprised  if  their  wedded  or  parental  confidence 
be  afterwards  painfully  abused,  since  they  have  taught  their 
families  the  habit  of  deceit,  by  encouraging  them  in  the 
Dractice  of  what  they  call  innocent  white  lying. 

That  lies  of  interest  are  sometimes  more  excu*a» 
rle,  and  less  offensive  ^.an  cr-e-s    M   t.-e  ^"sguuting  whet 


216  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

told  by  those  whom  conscious  independence  preserve* 
from  any  strong  temptation  to  violate  truth. 

That  lies  of  first-rate  MALIGNITY,  namely, 
lies  intended  wilfully  to  destroy  the  reputation  of  men  and 
women,  are  less  frequent  than  falsehoods  of  anj 
other  description,  becauae  the  arm  of  the  lew  defends 
reputations. 

That,  notwithstanding,  there  are  many  persons,  worn 
both  in  body  and  mind  by  the  consciousness  of  being  the 
object  of  calumnies  and  suspicions  which  they  have  nol 
the  power  to  combat,  who  steal  broken-hearted  into  their 
graves,  thankful  for  the  summons  of  death,  and  hoping  to 
rind  refuge  from  the  injustice  of  their  fellow-creatures  in 
the  bosom  of  their  Saviour. 

That  against  lies  of  second-rate  malignity 
the  law  holds  out  no  protection. 

That  they  spring  from  the  spirit  of  detraction,  and  can- 
not be  exceeded  in  base  and  petty  treachery. 

That     LIES     OF      REAL     BENEVOLENCE,    though    tllQ 

most  amiable  and  respectable  of  all  lies,  are,  notwith- 
standing, objectionable,  and  ought  not  to  be  told. 

That,  to  deceive  the  sick  and  dying,  is  a  dereliction  of 
principle  which  not  even  benevolence  can  excuse;  since, 
who  shall  venture  to  assert  that  a  deliberate  and  wilful 
falsehood  is  justifiable  1 

That,  withholding  the  truth  with  regard  to  the  charac- 
ter of  a  servant,  alias,  the  passive  lie  of  benevolence,  is  a 
pernicious  and  reprehensable  custom  ;  that,  if  benevolent 
to  the  hired,  h  is  malevolent  to  the  person  hiring,  and  may 
be  fatal  to  the  person  so  favoured. 

That  the  masters  and  mistresses  who  thus  perform  what 
they  call  a  benevolent  action,  at  the  expense  of  sincerity, 
often,  no  doubt,  find  their  sin  visited  on  their  own  heads  j 
because,  if  servants  know  that,  owing  to  the  lax  morality 
of  their  employers,  their  faults  will  not  receive  their  prop- 
er punishment,  that  is,  disclosure,  when  they  are  turned 
away, — one  of  the  most  powerful  motives  to  behave  well  is 
removed,  since,  those  are  not  likely  to  abstain  from  sin, 
who  are  sure  that  they  shall  sin  with  impunity. 

That  it  would  be  real  benevolence  "to  tell,  and 
not  to  withhold,  tiro  whole  truth  on  such  occasion*;  be- 


conclusion'.  £17 

cause  those  who  hire  servants  so  erroneously  befriended 
may,  from  ignorance  of  their  besetting  sins,  put  tempta- 
tions in  their  way  to  repeat  their  fault ;  and  may  thereby 
expose  them  to  incur,  some  day  or  other,  the  severest 
penalty  of  the  law. 

That  it  is  wrong,  however  benevolently  meant,  to  con- 
ceal the  whole  extent  of  a  calamity  from  an  afflicted  per- 
son, not  only  because  it  shows  a  distrust  of  the  wisdom  of 
the  Deity,  and  implies  that  he  is  not  a  fit  judge  of  the 
proper  degree  of  trial  to  be  inflicted  on  his  creatures, 
but,  because  it  is  a  withholding  of  the  truth  with  an  in 
tention  to  deceive,  and  that  such  a  practice  is  not  only 
wrong,  but  inexpedient  ;  as  we  may  thereby  stand  be- 
tween the  sufferer  and  the  consolation  which  might  have 
been  afforded  in  some  cases  by  the  very  nature  and  inten- 
sity of  the  blow  inflicted;  and  lastly,  because  such  con- 
cealment is  seldom  ultimately  successful,  since  the  truth 
comes  out,  usually  in  the  end,  and  when  the  sufferer  is  not 
so  well  able  to  bear  it 

That  lies  of  wantonness,  are  lies  which  .are  often 
told  for  no  other  motive  than  to  show  the  utterer's  total 
contempt  for  truth  ;  and  that  there  is  no  hope  for  tho 
amendment  of  such  persons,  since  they  thus  sin  from  a 
depraved  fondness  for  speaking,  and  inventing  falsehood. 

That  dress   affords    good  illustrations  of  practical 

LIES. 

That  if  false  hair,  false  bloom,  false  eyebrows,  and  oth- 
er artificial  aids  to  the  appearance,  are  so  well  contrived, 
that  they  seem  palpably  intended  to  pass  for  natural  beau- 
ties, then  do  these  aids  of  dress  partake  of  the  vicious  na- 
ture of  other  lying. 

That  the  medical  man  who  desires  bis  servant  to  call 
him  out  of  church,  or  from  a  party,  when  he  is  not  want- 
ed, in  order  to  give  him  the  appearance  of  the  great  busi- 
ness which  he  has  not  ;  and  the  author  who  makes  his 
publisher  put  second  and  third  edition  before  a  work  of 
which,  perhaps,  even  the  first  is  not  wholly  sold,  are  also 

guilty  of  PRACTICAL  LIES. 

That  the  practical  lies  most  fatal  to  others,  are  those 
ncted  by  men  who,  when  in  the  gulf  of  bankruptcy,  launch 


213  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LiiNC. 

out  into  increased  splendour  of  living,  in  order  to  obtain 
further  credit,  by  inducing  an  opinion  that  they  are  rich. 

That  another  pern \c\ous  practical  lie  is  acted  by  boys 
and  girls  at  school,  who  employ  their  school-fellows  to  do 
pxercises  for  them  ;  or  who  themselves  do  them  far  others; 
that  by  this  means,  children  become  acquainted  with  the 
practice  of  deceit  as  soon  as  they  enter  a  public  school  ; 
and  thus  is  counteracted  the  effect  of  those  principles  of 
spontaneous  truth  which  they  may  have  learnt  at  home. 

That  lying  is  mischievous  and  impolitic,  because  it  des- 
troys confidence,  that  best  charm  and  only  cement  of  so- 
ciety ;  and  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  believe  our  ac- 
quaintances, or  expect  to  be  believed  ourselves,  when  we 
or  they  have  once  been  detected  in  falsehood. 

That  speaking  the  truth  does  not   imply  a   necessity  to 

wound  the  feelings  of  any  one.      That   offensive,  or  home 

truths,  should  never  be  volunteered,  though   one   lavs    it 

down  as  a  principle,  that  truth  must  be  spoken  when  call- 

d  for. 

That  often  the  temporary  wound  given  by  us,  on  princi- 
ple, to  the  self-love  of  others,  may  be  attended  with  lasting 
benefit  to  them,  and  benevolence  in  reality  be  not  wounded, 
but  gratified  since  the  truly  benevolent  can  always  find  a 
balm  for  the  wounds  which  duty  obliges  them  to  inflict. 

That,  were  the  utterance  of  spontaneous  truth  to  become 
a  general  principle  of  action  in  society,  no  one  would  dare 
to  put  such  questions  concerning  their  defects  as  I  have 
enumerated  ;  therefore  the  difficulty  of  always  speaking 
truth  would  be  almost  annihilated. 

That  those  who  in  the  presence  of  their  acquaintance, 
make  mortifying  observations  on  their  personal  defects,  or 
wound  their  self-love  in  any  other  way,  are  not  actuated  by 
the  love  of  truth,  but  that  their  sincerity  is  the  result  of 
coarseness  of  mind,  and  of  the  mean  wish  to  inflict  pain. 

That  all  human  beings  are,  in  their  closets,  convinced 
of  the  importance  of  truth  to  the  interests  of  society  though 
few,  comparatively,  think  the  practice  binding  on  them 
when  acting  in  the  busy  scenes  of  the  world. 

That  we  must  wonder  still  less  at  the  little  shame  at- 
tached to  white  lying,  when  we  see  it  sanctioned  in  Uie 
highest  assemblies  in  the  kingdom. 


conclusion.  2  J  r» 

Tbat,  in  die  heat  of  political  debate,  in  either  house  of 
parliament,  offence  is  given  and  received,  and  the  una- 
voidable consequence  is  thought  to  be  apology,  or  duel  ; 
that  the  necessity  of  either  is  obviated  only  by  lying,  the 
offender  being  at  length  induced  to  declare  that  by  black 
he  did  not  mean  black,  but  white,  and  the  offended  say, 
"  enough — I  am  satisfied." 

That  the  supposed  necessity  of  thus  making  apologies, 
in  the  language  of  falsehood,  is  much  to  be  deplored  ;  and 
that  the  language  of  truth  might  be  used  with  equal  effect. 

That,  if  the  offender  and  olfended  were  married  men, 
the  f  inner  might  declare,  that  he  would  not,  for  any  world- 
ly consideration,  run  the  risk  of  making  his  own  wife  a 
widow,  and  his  own  children  fatherless,  nor  those  of  any 
other  man  ;  and  that  he  was  also  withheld  by  obedience  to 
the  divine  command,  "  Thou  shall  not  kill." 

That,  though  there  might  be  many  heroes  present  on 
such  an  occasion,  whose  heads  were  bowed  down  with  the 
weight  of  their  laurels,  the  man  who  eqyld  thus  speak  and 
act  against  the  bloody  custom  of  the  world  would  be  a 
greater  hero,  in  the  best  of  the  word,  as  he  would  be  made 
superior  to  the  fear  of  man,  by  fear  of  God. 

That  some  persons  say,  that  they  have  lied  so  as  to  de- 
ceive, with  an  air  of  complacency,  as  if  vain  of  their  de- 
ceptive art,  adding,  "  but  it  was  only  a  with  lie,  you 
know  ;"  as  if,  therefore,  it  was  no  lie  at  all. 

That  it  is  cotnmon  to  hear  even  the  pious  and  the  moral 
assert  that  a  deviation  from  truth,  or  a  withholding  of  the 
truth,  is  sometimes  absolutely  necessary. 

That  persons  who  thus  reason,  if  asked  whether,  while 
repeating  the  commandment,  "  thou  shalt  not  steal,"  they 
may,  nevertheless,  pilfer  in  some  small  degree,  would,  un- 
doubtedly, answer  ir.  the  negative ;  yet,  that  white  lying 
is  as  much  an  infringement  of  the  moral  law  as  little  pil- 
fering is  of  the  commandment  not  to  steal. 

That  I  have  thought  it  right  to  give  extracts  from  many 
powerful  writers,  in  coroboratiou  of  my  own  opinion  on 
thesubjuct  of  lying. 

That,  if  asked  why  I  have  taken  so  much  trouble  to  prove 
what  no  one  doubted,  I  reply,  that  I  have  done  so  in  or- 
der to  force  on  the  attention  of  my  readers  that  not  one  of 


220  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LTING. 

these  writers  mentions  any  allowed  exception  to  the  general 
rule  of  truth  ;  and  it  seems  to  be  their  opinion  that  no  men- 
tal reservation  is  to  lie  .permitted  on  special  occasions. 

That  the  principle  of  truth  is  an  immutable  principle, 
or  it  is  of  no  use  as  a  guard  to  morals. 

That  it  is  earnestly  to  be  hoped  and  desired  that  the  day 
may  come,  when  it  shall  be  as  dishonourable  to  commit  the 
slightest  breach  of  veracity  as  to  pass  counterfeit  shillings. 

That  Dr.  Hawkesworth  is  wrong  in  saying  that  the  liar 
is  universally  abandoned  and  despised  ;  lor,  although  we 
dismiss  the  servant  whose  habit  of  lying  offends  us,  we  never 
refuse  to  associate  with  the  liar  of  rank  and  opulence. 

That,  though,  as  he  says,  the  imputation  of  a  lie  is  an 
insult  for  which  life  can  only  atone,  the  man  who  would 
thus  fatally  resent  it  does  not  even  reprove  the  lie  of  conve- 
nience in  his  wife  or  child,  and  is  often  guilty  of  it  himself. 

That  the  lying  order  given  to  a  servant  entails  conse- 
quences of  a  mischievous  nature  ;  that  it  lowers  the  stand- 
ard of  truth  in  the  person  who  receives  it,  lowers  the  per- 
sons who  give  it,  and  deprives  the  latter  of  their  best 
claim  to  their  servants'  respect;  namely,  a  conviction  of 

their  MORAL  SUPERIORITY. 

That  the  account  given,  by  Boswell,  of  Johnson's  regard 
to  truth,  furnishes  us  with  a  better  argument  for  it  than  is 
afforded  by  the  best  moral  fictions. 

That,  if  Johnson  could  always  speak  the  truth,  others 
can  do  the  same ;  as  it  does  not  require  his  force  of  in- 
tellect to  enable  us  to  be  sincere. 

That,  if  it  be  asked  what  would  be  gained  by  always 
speaking  the  truth;  I  answer,  that  the  individuals  so 
speaking  would  acquire  the  involuntary  confidence  and 
reverence  of  their  fellow-creatures. 

That  the  consciousness  of  truth  and  ingenuousness  gives 
a  radiance  to  the  countenance,  and  a  charm  to  the  man- 
ner, which  no  other  quality  of  mind  can  equally  bestow. 

That  the  contrast  to  this  picture  must  be  familiar  to 
the  memory  of  every  one. 

That  it  is  a  delightful  sensation  to  feel  and  aspire  con- 
fidence. 

That  it  is  delightful  to  know  that  we  have  friends  on 
■ .  '.,:va  we  can  always  rely  for  honest  counsel  and  ingenuous 

.roo£ 


CONCLUSION.  221 

That  it  is  an  ambition  worthy  of  thinking  beings  to  en- 
deavour to  qualify  ourselves,  and  those  whom  we  love,  to 
be  such  friends  as  these. 

That  if  each  individual  family  would  resolve  to  avoid 
every  species  of  falsehood,  whether  authorized  by  custom 
or  not,  the  example  would  soon  spread. 

That  nothing  is  impossible  to  zeal  and  enterprize. 

That  there  is  a  river  which,  if  suffered  to  flow  over  the 
impurities  of  falsehood  and  dissimulation  in  the  world,  is 
powerful  enough  to  wash  tliem  all  away;  since  it  flowe 
from  the  fountain  ok  ever-living  waters. 

That  the  powerful  writers,  from  whom  I  have  given 
extracts,  have  treated  the  subject  of  truth  as  moralists 
only ;  and  have,  therefore,  kept  out  of  sight  the  only 
sure   motive   to  resist  the  temptation  to   lie ;    namely, 

OBEDIENCE  TO  THE   DIVINE  WILL. 

That  the  moral  man  may  utter  spontaneous  truth  on  all 
occasions  ;  but,  the  religious  man,  if  he  acts  consistently, 
must  do  so. 

That,  both  the  Old  and  New  Testament  abound  in  facts 
and  texts  to  prove  how  odious  the  sin  of  lying  is  in  the 
sight  of  the  Almighty  ;  as  I  have  shown  in  several  quota- 
tions from  Scripture  to  that  effect. 

That,  as  no  person  has  a  right  to  resent  being  called  a 
sloven  who  goes  about  in  stained  garments,  though  that 
stain  be  a  single  one  ;  that  person  who  indulges  in  any  one 
species  of  lie  cannot  declare,  with  justice,  that  he  deserves 
not  the  name  of  liar. 

That  the  all-powerful  Being  who  has  said  "  as  is  our 
day,  our  strength  shall  be,"  still  lives  to  hear  the  prayer 
of  all  who  call  on  Him,  and  in  the  hour  of  temptation 
will  "strengthen  them  outofZion." 
That,  in  all  other  times  of  danger,  the  believer  supplicates 
for  help,  but  few  persons  think  of  praying  to  be  preserved 
from  little  lying,  though  the  Lord  has  not  revealed  to  us 
what  species  of  lying  he  tolerates,  and  what  he  reproves. 

That,  though  I  am  sure  it  is  not  impossible  to  speak 
the  truth  always,  when  persons  are  powerfully  influenc- 
ed by  religious  motives,  I  admit  the  extreme  difficulty 
of  it,  and  have  given  the  conduct  of  some  distinguished 
religious  charactei-s  as  illustrations  of  the  difficulty. 


222  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

That  other  instances  have  been  stated,  in  order  to  exem- 
plify the  power  of  religious  motives  on  some  minds  to  in- 
duce undaunted  utterance  of  the  truth,  even  when  death 
was  the  sure  consequence. 

That  temptations  to  little  lying  are  far  more  common  than 
temptations  to  great  and  important  lies ;  that  they  are  far 
more  difficult  to  resist,  because  they  come  upon  us  daily  and 
unawares,  and  because  we  know  that  we  may  utter  white 
lies  without  fear  of  detection  ;  and,  if  detected,  without  any 
risk  of  being  disgraced  by  them  in  the  eyes  of  others. 

That,notwithstanding,they  are  equally ,with  great  lies,con- 
trary  to  the  will  of  God,  &that  it  is  necessary  to  be  "watch- 
ful unto  prayer,"  when  we  are  tempted  to  commit  them. 

I  conclude  this  summary  by  again  conjuring  my  readers  to 
reflect  that  there  is  no  moral  difficulty,however  great,which 
courage,  zkal,  and  perseverance,  will  not  enable 
them  to  overcome  ;  and,  never,  probably,was  there  a  period 
in  the  history  of  man,  when  those  qualities  seemed  more 
successfully  called  into  action  than  at  the  present  moment. 

Never  was  there  a  better  opportunity  of  establishing  gen- 
eral society  on  the  principles  of  truth,  than  that  now  af- 
forded by  the  enlightened  plan  of  educating  the  infant 
population  of  these  United  Kingdoms. 

There  is  one  common  ground  on  which  the  most  scep- 
tical philosopher,  and  the  most  serious  Christian  meet,  and 
cordialy  agree;  namely,  on  the  doctrine  of  the  omnipotence 
of  motives.  They  differ  only  on  the  nature  of  the  motives 
to  be  applied  to  human  actions  ;  the  one  approving  of  mor- 
al motives  alone,  the  other  advocating  the  propriety  of  giv- 
ing religious  ones. 

But,  those  motives  only  can  be  made  to  act  upon  the 
infant  mind  which  it  is  able  to  understand  ;  and  they 
are,  chiefly,  the  hope  of  reward  for  obedience,  and  the 
dread  of  punishment  for  disobedience.  But,  these  motives 
are  all-sufficient ;  therefore,  even  at  the  earliest  period  of 
life,  a  love  of  truth  and  an  abhorrence  of  lying  may  be  in- 
culcated with  the  greatest  success.  Moreover,  habit, 
that  best  of  friends,  or  worst  of  foes,  according  to  the 
direction  given  to  its  power,  may  form  an  impregnable 
barrier  to  defend  the  pupils  thus  trained,  against  the  al- 
lurements of  falsehood. 


CONCLUSION,  223 

Children  taught  to  tell  the  truth  from  the  motive  of 
fear  and  of  hope,  and  from  the  force  of  habit,  will  be  so 
well  prepared  to  admit  and  profit  by  the  highest  motives 
to  do  so,  as  soon  as  they  can  be  unfolded  to  their  minds, 
that,  when  they  are  removed  to  other  schools,  as  they  ad- 
vance in  life,  they  will  be  found  to  abhor  every  description 
of  lying  and  deceit;  and  thus  the  cause  of  spontaneous 
truth  and  general  education  will  go  forward,  progressing 
and  prospering  together. 

Nor  can  the  mere  moralist,  or  the  man  of  the  world,  be 
blind  to  the  benefit  which  would  accrue  to  them,  were  so- 
ciety to  be  built  on  the  foundation  of  truth  and  of  sincerity. 
If  our  servants,  a  race  of  persons  on  whom  much  of  our 
daily  comfort  depends,  are  trained  up  in  habits  of  truth,  do- 
mestic confidence  and  security  will  be  the  happy  result;  and 
we  shall  no  longer  hear  the  common  complaint  of  their  lies 
and  disonesty  ;  and,  the  parents  who  feel  the  value  of  truth 
in  their  domestics,  will,  doubtless,  take  care  to  teach  their 
children  those  habits  which  have  had  power  to  raise  eveiv 
their  inferiors  in  the  scale  of  utility  and  of  moral  excel- 
lence. Where  are  the  worldlings  who,  in  such  a  state 
of  society,  would  venture  to  persevere  in  what  they 
now  deem  necessary  ivhite  lying,  when  the  lady  may 
be  shamed  into  truth  by  the  refusal  of  her  waiting-maid 
to  utter  the  lie  required  ;  and  the  gentleman  may  learn  to 
feel  the  meanness  of  falsehood,  alias,  of  the  lie  of  con- 
venience, by  the  respectful,  hut  firm,  resistance  to  utter 
it  of  hi*  valet-de-chambre  ?  But,  if  the  minds  of  the 
of  the  poor  and  the  laborious,  who  must  always  form  the 
most  extensive  part  of  the  community,  are  formed  in  in- 
fancy to  the  practice  of  moral  virtue,  the  happiness,  safety, 
and  improvement,  of  the  higher  classes  will,  I  doubt  not, 
be  thereby  secured.  As  the  lofty  heads  of  the  pyramids 
of  Egypt  were  rendered  able  to  resist  the  power  of  the 
storm  and  the  whirlwind,  through  successive  ages,  by  the 
extent  of  their  bases,  and  by  the  soundness  and  strength 
of  the  materials  of  which  they  were  constructed,  so,  the 
continued  security,  and  the  very  existence,  perhaps,  of  the 
higher  orders  in  society,  may  depend  on  the  extended  mor- 
al teaching  and  sound  principles  of  the  lowest  orders  ;  for 
treachery  and  conspiracy,  with  their  results,  rebellion,  and 


224  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  LYING. 

assassination,  are  not  likely  to  be  the  crimes  of  those  who 
have  been  taught  to  practice  truth  and  openness  in  all 
their  dealings,  on  the  ground  of  moral  orders,  and  of 
obedience  to  the  will  of  god. 

But,  it  is  the  bounden  duty  of  the  rich  and  of  the  great 
to  maintain  their  superiority  of  mind  and  morals,  as  well 
as  that  of  wealth  and  situation.  I  beseech  them  to  re- 
member that  it  will  be  their  place  to  give  and  not  to  take 
example  ;  and  they  must  be  careful,  in  a  race  of  morality, 
to  be  neither  outstripped,  nor  overtaken  by  their  inferiors. 
They  must  also  believe,  in  order  to  render  their  efforts  suc- 
cessful, that,  although  morality  without  religion  is,  com- 
paratively, weak,  yet,  when  these  are  combined,  jhey  are 
strong  enough  to  overcome  all  obstacles. 

Lying  is  a  sin  which  tempts  us  on  every  side,  but  is  more 
to  be  dreaded  when  it  allures  us  in  the  shape  of  white  lies; 
for  against  these,  as  I  have  before  observed,  we  are  not  on 
our  guard  ;  and  instead  of  looking  on  thein  as  enemies  we 
consider  them  as  friends. 

Black  lies,  if  I  may  so  call  them,  aixrbeasts  and  birds 
of  prey,  which  we  rarely  see ;  and  which,  when  seen,  we 
know  that  we  must  instantly  avoid:  but  white  lies  approach 
us  in  the  pleasing  shape  of  necessary  courtesies  and  in- 
nocent self-defence. 

Finally,  I  would  urge  them  to  remember  that,  if  they 
believe  in  the  records  of  holy  writ,  they  can  thence  derive 
sufficient  motives  to  enable  them  to  tell  spontaneous  truth, 
in  defiance  of  the  aieers  of  the  world,  and  of  "  evil  and 
good  report." 

That  faith  in  a  life  to  come,  connected  with  a  close  de- 
pendence on  divine  grace,  will  give  them  power  in  this,  as 
well  as  in  other  respects,  to  emancipate  themselves  from 
their  own  bondage  of  corruption,  as  well  as  to  promote 
the  purification  of  others.  For,  Christians  possess  what 
Archimedes  wanted ;  they  have  another  sphere  on  which 
to  fix  their  hold  ;  and,  by  that  means,  can  be  enabled  to 
move,  to  influence,  and  to  benefit,  this  present  world  of. 
transitory  enjoyments  ;  a  world  which  is  in  reality  safe  and 
precious  to  those  alone  who  "  use  it,  without  abusing 
it."  and  who  are  ever  looking  beyond  it  "  to  a  building  ot 
God*  a  home  not  made  with  hands,  eternal  in  the  heavens," 


. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


Sep  i  9 1952' 


TIN! 


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1421     Opie   -    ^____ 
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lying. 


££BJ^-49&^ 


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